THE 

ETCHINGHATf 
LErTTERS 


SIR  ; 

FREDERIGK  POLLOCK 


;  MAITLAN 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OE  CALIEORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


f~f^r^ 


fMf 


— "    X 


The  Etchingham  Letters 


rh. 


ETCHINGHAM 


"By 

Sir   Frederick   Pollock 

an  J 
Mrs.  Fuller   Maitland 


NEW      YORK 
DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY 


1899 


r 


Copyright,  iSqS, 
By  DoDD,  Mead  and  Company 


chief  Persons  of  the  Letters 


^ 


Sir  Richard  Etchingham, 
lately  retired  from  Indian 
service  (political  depart- 
ment), widower. 

Harry  Etchingham,  Major 
R.A.  ;  Charles  Etching- 
ham, of  the  Equity  Bar,  Sir 
Richard's  brothers. 

James  Etchingham,  assist- 
ant tutor  of  Silvertoe  Col- 
lege, Oxbridge,  Sir  Rich- 
ard's cousin. 

The  Rev.  Edward  Follett, 
Vicar  of  Much  Buckland. 

The  Rev.  SeptimusWeekes, 
his  curate. 

Stephen  Leagrave,  of  the 
Education  Office. 


William    Shipley,    of 
Record  Office. 


the 


Elizabeth,  Sir  Richard's 
sister. 

Margaret,  Sir  Richard's 
daughter. 

Laura,  Lady  Etchingham, 
second  wife  and  now  widow 
of  the  late  Sir  Nicholas 
Etchingham. 

Mrs.  Vivian,  mother-in-law 
of  Charles  Etchingham. 

Minnie,  wife  of  Charles  Etch- 
ingham. 

Mrs.  Follett,  wife  of  the 
Rev.  Edward  Follett. 

Cynthia  Leagrave,  sister  to 
Stephen. 

Alice,  wife  of  Col.  Newton, 
sister  to  Shipley. 


THE  ETCHINGHAM 
LETTERS. 


I. 


From  Miss  Elizabeth  Etchingham,  83  Hans  Place, 
London,  S.W.,  to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham, 
Bart.,  Tolcarne,  Much  Buckland,  Wcssex. 

Most  excellent  Richard, — As  much  of 
your  sister's  mind  as  remains  when  painters, 
carpenters,  bellhangers,  electric-lighters,  sanitary 
engineers,  chimneysweeps,  and  "men  about  the 
kitchen  range"  have  done  their  worst  and  their 
work — or  rather  done  their  worst  and  left  their 
work  undone — now  proposes  to  address  you. 

Harry  very  kindly  met  his  stepmother,  his 
sister,  and  a  pyramid  of  luggage,  which  included 
a  bicycle  and  a  bath-c'hair,  at  Paddington.  (Cyn- 
thia only  joined  us  yesterday,  after  three  days 
spent  at  Oxbridge  with  the  Gainsworthys.)  Tre- 
lawney,  Tracy,  and  the  bullfinches  were  more 
en  evidence  than  conventionality  permits  cer- 
tainly, and  perhaps  the  sight  upon  a  platform  of 
a  flustered  cat  and  dog  and  a  cage  of  fluttering 
singing-birds  proved  too  much  for  my  brother 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

— greatly  as  he  appreciates  the  creatures  in 
private — for  he  vanished  from  among  us  as  in- 
stantaneously as  if  he  were  a  conjuring  trick, 
and,  though  I  heard  his  foot  upon  the  still  un- 
carpeted  stair  at  midnight,  we  saw  him  no  more 
till  the  next  morning.  ("I  was  surprised,  M'm, 
and  so  was  Grace  and  Mrs.  Baker,  that  Tre- 
lawney  did  not  catch  the  Major's  eye  at  the  sta- 
tion ;  set  ofif  so,  as  he  was  too,  by  his  blue  riband, 
and  the  cat  looking  for  notice,"  was  Blake's  com- 
ment on  the  platform  episode — the  episode  not 
of  defective  vision,  but  of  cutting  dead.) 

Please,  Richard,  learn  one  lesson  that  no  man 
ever  learnt  yet — learn  that  a  woman  does  not  of 
necessity  enjoy  all  that  she  endures  with  pa- 
tience, nor  welcome  every  ill  she  tolerates.  The 
hammering  and  the  hugger-mugger,  the  upset 
and  upsidedown  condition  of  everything  that  I 
have  striven  to  suffer,  if  not  gladly,  heroically, 
Harry  evidently  believes  to  be  welcome  as  the 
flowers  of  May  to  his  sister.  ''Elizabeth  likes  a 
disturbance — all  women  do,"  he  says  with  a 
touch  of  irritation,  as  he  seeks,  poor  dear,  among 
the  chaos  for  his  hat  (upon  which  the  furniture- 
removing  people  yesterday  had  thoughtfully 
placed  the  refrigerator).  But  was  not  this  con- 
clusion of  Harry's  a  tribute  to  his  sister's  powers 
of  self-control? 

I  hope  our  joint  menage  may  prosper. 

Between  you  and  me  and  the  doorpost,  I  think 
we  were  mistaken  as  to  the  fragmentary  condi- 
tion of  Harry's  heart.    He  looks  extremely  well, 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

and  this  Intelligence  Department  appointment 
is  just  what  he  likes.  I  am  thankful  that  Ada' 
Llanelly  did  not  marry  him.  She  is  such  a 
worldly  little  thing,  and  he  is  so  perfectly  sim- 
ple-minded, really,  that  the  marriage  must  have 
come  to  grief.  Between  the  worldly  and  the 
unworldly  there  is  a  greater  gulf  fixed  that  even 
love  and  affection  can  cross. 

By  the  way,  if  you  are  writing  to  Charles,  do 
give  him  a  hint  of  the  desirability  of  sending 
Minnie  to  see  us  speedily.  I  do  not  wish  to 
worry  Minnie ;  she  and  I  have  never  particularly 
cottoned ;  but,  as  you  have  good  reason  to  know, 
our  stepmother  holds  to  her  lbs.  of  domestic 
and  social  flesh,  and  she  begins  to  be  a  little 
prickly  on  the  subject  of  the  delayed  visit.  She 
has  shown  herself  on  the  defensive  indeed  ever 
since  Minnie  indirectly  refused  to  provide  her 
relations-in-law  with  "orders  to  view"  unfur- 
nished houses  in  the  Lower  Berkeley  Street 
region,  and  despatched  sheaf  after  sheaf  from 
Sloane  Street  and  Cadogan  Place  agents.  (There 
Minnie  was  right.  The  Park  is  an  excellent 
buffer  between  kinsfolk,  and  we  are  best  where 
we  are.)  But,  alas,  for  all  of  us,  if  we  begin 
our  London  existence  with  a  clearly  defined 
"unpleasantness ;"  and  Charles  having  in  the 
past  always  rather  failed — failed  even  more  than 
the  rest  of  us — to  give  satisfaction,  much  do  I 
fear  that  the  apprehended  "unpleasantness"  will 
soon  be  an  accepted  fact.  Our  stepmother  is 
making  ready  to  feel  slighted,  and  has  already 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

taken  the  huffed  tone.  (Are  we  armoured  with 
pride  or  humility,  you  and  I,  to  whom  it  never 
occurs  that  any  one  should  wish  to  slight  us?) 
What  with  his  work  and  with  this  notion  of  get- 
ting into  Parliament  (Minnie,  I  gather,  is  very 
keen  for  the  carrying  into  effect  of  the  Parlia- 
ment scheme),  Charles,  likely  enough,  is  too 
busy  to  come  himself  immediately,  but  he  would 
do  well  to  send  his  wife.  "Charles  owes  it  to 
the  memory  of  his  father  to  call  at  once,  what- 
ever may  be  his  engagements ;  and  the  walk 
across  the  Park  from  Lower  Berkeley  Street  to 
Hans  Place  is  nothing  for  an  active  man  in  the 
prime  of  life,"  is  what  I  hear,  my  good  Richard, 
very,  very  often ;  and,  as  you  may  remember, 
Laura's  appetite  for  a  grievance  has  always 
grown  with  the  talking. 

Do  you  know,  I  feel  sure  that  your  sister  is 
on  the  high-road  to  becoming  a  shocking  gossip 
— a  mauvaisc  languc  of  the  worst  description.  I 
find  that  there  are  predicaments  in  which  the 
good-natured  thing  is  to  be  ill-natured,  the  char- 
itable thing  to  be  malicious. 

You  see,  our  poor  stepmother  is  held  in  such 
durance  vile  by  rheumatism  as  to  be  at  present 
unable  to  drive  or  walk,  and  she  therefore  re- 
quires a  good  deal  of  within-doors  amusement. 
And,  though  this  evident  law  of  nature  is  some- 
times forgotten,  people  can  only  be  amused  by 
what  amuses  them.  "Who  did  you  see?"  and 
"What  did  they  say?"  is  asked  of  me  after  every 
outing.    When  I  have  seen  next  to  nobody,  and 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

next  to  nobody  has  said  next  to  nothing,  rather 
than  disappoint  her  news-hunger  I  am  ahnost 
induced  to  draw  upon  my  imagination,  or  to  take 
away  one  woman's  character  for  the  sake  of 
diverting  another. 

Now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it,  sharp-tongued, 
fault-seeing  women  are,  surely,  oftener  than  not 
the  stay  and  support  of  invalid  mothers  or  step- 
mothers. Poor  wretches,  I  have  no  doubt  their 
power  of  apparently  malevolent  criticism  or  ruth- 
less backbiting  is  the  outcome  of  good  hearts 
and  filial  piety.  Invalids,  for  their  health's 
good,  must  be  entertained  and  diverted,  and  old 
ladies  are  not  to  be  interested  by  political  crises. 
I  doubt  if  the  being  in  attendance  upon  an  old 
man  would  foster  evil-speaking,  lying,  and  slan- 
dering. The  old  man  probably  would  prefer  the 
dullest  newspaper  leader  or  most  unfathomable 
stock-market  quotations  to  the  turning  inside 
out  for  his  benefit  of  his  neighbours'  characters 
and  conditions. 

I  am  impatient  for  news  of  Tolcarne,  and  I 
must  be  told  quickly  what  you  think  of  every- 
body, and  how  things  generally  prosper.  Is 
Margaret  ordering  the  house  as  wisely  as  if  the 
child  were  her  own  grandmother?  and  is  she 
mothering  the  garden?  The  almonds  and  the 
mezereon  must  be  now  ablow,  and  soon  there 
should  be  white  violets  everywhere.  You  will, 
I  fancy,  come  to  like  the  Vicar  and  Mrs.  Fol- 
lett,  and  you  will,  I  know,  terrify  poor  Mr. 
Weekes,  the  very  meekest  of  meek  curates.   Let 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

me  hear,  too,  if  the  dear  old  dogs,  "Tray,  Blanch, 
and  Sweetheart,"  are  taking  kindly  to  the 
change  of  masters.  I  'hope  so.  Mr.  Weekes 
said  to  me  once,  in  his  painful  conversation- 
manufactory  efforts,  "I  like  your  dogs,  Miss 
Etchingham ;  they  don't  bite  curates."  Our 
Tracy  walks  abroad  in  Cynthia's  company — 
Tracy  wearing  a  coat  cut  with  a  Medici  collar. 

(Tell  Margaret  that  Blake,  when  reproached 
for  the  inordinate  length  of  time  spent  in  the 
running  up  of  a  coat  for  his  spaniel  dogship, 
brought  forward  the  plea,  "I'm  making  Tracy's 
coat.  Miss  Cynthia,  with  a  Medici  collar.") 

Poor  Tracy,  he  looks  pathetically  bewilder.  ' 
by  the  uproar  of  the  traffic  and  the  perplexi  ^ 
avenues  of  bricks  and  mortar.  Cynthia  inust 
write  and  ask  Mr.  Follett  whether  spaniel  his- 
tory is  repeating  itself,  and  if  Herrick  brought 
his  "Spaniell  Tracie"  to  his  "beloved  Westmin- 
ster" from  "dull  Devonshire."  If  so,  the  poet's 
Tracy  had  little  to  trace,  poor  fellow,  but  his 
master;  though  London  precincts  were  not  as 
birdless  then  as  now.  As  to  Margaret's  friend, 
Trelawney,  we  are  congratulating  ourselves  that 
his  cedar-wood-hued  fur  is  a  "good  wearing" 
colour,  and  comes  through  a  fog  less  discred- 
itably than  could  the  white  coats  of  his  still-in- 
the-country  Persian  relatives.  Looking  just 
now  at  his  green  eyes  that  shine  like  emeralds, 
it  occurred  to  me  that,  besides  flame,  there  is 
yet  another  thing — eyes — that  London  smoke 
cannot  tarnish. 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Later. — My  letter-writing  this  afternoon  was 
interrupted  by  the  welcome  arrival  of  Charles 
and  Minnie.  Minnie  was  pleasanter  perhaps  be- 
fore she  wrote  her  novel.  (You  really  must  read 
"Only  a  Woman's  Heart" — or,  at  least,  try  to 
read  it.  It  is  "expected  of  you,"  to  quote  an 
habitual  phrase  of  our  stepmother's.)  Minnie 
is  thoroughly  literary  now,  and  is  surrounding 
herself  with  the  ragtag  and  bobtail  of  poets  and 
story-tellers.  I  had  no  opportunity  of  tcte-a-tetc 
speech  with  Charles.  Various  people  appeared, 
and  had  to  be  dealt  with :  Sir  Augustus  Pampes- 
ford,  among  others,  very  solemn  on  the  wrongs 
^f  "our  honourable  order,"  and  confiding  his 
,-^es  to  Admiral  Tidenham,  who,  notwithstand- 
ing- his  ear-trumpet,  believed  himself  called  upon 
to  sympathize  with  the  plague  of  barrel-organs, 
not  the  provocation  of  baronets.  Then  old  Mrs. 
Carstairs  came  and  discoursed  upon  the  ini- 
quities of  the  young  girl  of  the  present  day,  quot- 
ing as  text  to  her  sermon  one  of  Mrs.  Baxter's 
daughters,  who  always  dines  in  her  own  room 
because  her  parents  bore  her,  and  Lady  Clem- 
entine Mure's  child,  who  insists  that  her  mother 
should  winter  at  Pau,  so  that  she  herself  may 
follow  her  studio  avocations  without  the  hin- 
drance of  Lady  Clementine's  requirements. 
Stephen  Leagrave,  too,  walked  in.  He  and 
Minnie  seem  to  fuse  as  they  never  did  before 
she  wrote  her  novel,  and  they  have  much  to 
say  to  each  other  of  authors  of  whom  I,  in  my 
ignorance,  have  never  heard.    Stephen's  work  at 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

the  Education  Office  does  not  wear  him  to  a 
thread-paper  seemingly,  and  he  has  taken,  in  a 
moderate  degree,  to  journalism.  Cynthia's 
pleasure  in  her  brother's  company  is  pleas- 
ant to  witness ;  and  he  is  proud,  as  he  should  be, 
of  his  sister.  She  really  is  a  very  pretty  crea- 
ture. She  is  also  a  singularly  relationless  crea- 
ture, lacking  as  she  does — with  the  exception 
of  our  stepmother — all  female  kith  and  kin.  I  do 
hope  she  will  be  happy  with  us  until  Colonel 
Leagrave  comes  home  and  takes  possession  of 
his  very  attractive  property :  unless,  which  does 
not  seem  unlikely,  some  one  else  has  succeeded 
in  doing  so  meanwhile. 

The  door  closed  upon  Charles  and  Minnie, 
Harry,  who  had  maintained  an  ominous  silence 
during  Charles's  visit,  and  during  Charles's  refer- 
ences to  a  possible  Parliamentary  career,  kicked, 
to  Trelawney's  intense  disgust,  the  fireguard  on 
to  the  hearthrug,  and  in  quite  ferocious  tones 
begged  me  to  inform  him  how  a  man  with  any 
pretension  to  the  character  of  a  rational  being 
could  be  a  Gladstonian,  a  Home-Ruler,  and  out- 
and-out  Radical.  "Charles  I  bdicx'c  to  be  an 
honest  man.  I  wish  to  believe  Charles  to  be  an 
honest  man.  But  just  tell  me — how  can  an 
honest  man  go  in  for  plunder,  for  downriglit 
swindling,  for  betraying  his  country,  for  pander- 
ing to  the  worst  instincts  of  the  dregs  of  hu- 
manity? How  do  you  reconcile  the  two,  Eliza- 
beth ?  Are  they  reconcilable?  I  hold  the  Radi- 
cals  responsible   for   everything  that   has   gone 

8 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

wrong  during  the  last "  (I  forget  Harry's 

figures).  I  tried  to  disown  responsibility  for 
opinions  that  I  do'  not  share ;  but  Harry's  wrath 
was  really  kindled,  and  he  continued  to  heckle 
me  till  the  dressing-bell  rang  my  release. 

Why  are  the  electric-light  folk,  of  all  work- 
men, the  most  troublesome  and  dilatory?  Is  it 
because  with  electric-lighters  evolution  has  not 
yet  had  time  to  play  its  part,  and  so  not  only 
the  fittest  electric-lighters  survive? 

Yours  ever  and  alway, 

Elizabeth. 

P.S. — Write  soon  and  tell  me  of  things  inter- 
esting, and  of  a  book  or  two  beyond  my  compre- 
hension— to  read  what  I  don't  understand  makes 
me  feel  on  the  high-road  to  scholarship.  A 
correspondence  with  you  was  always  a  solace 
in  your  Indian  days ;  and  now,  as  then,  your 
learning  and  wisdom  are  sufificient  for  the  two  of 
us,  and  I  need  not  strain  myself  by  pretending 
to  either. 

At  present  (ii  p.m.,  Saturday  night)  I  am  not 
wholly  reconciled  to  London,  though,  all  things 
considered  (how  much  lack  of  consideration  this 
convenient  phrase  can  cover),  I  think  the  com- 
ing here  was  the  best  move  possible.  It  was  a 
choice  of  evils — as  everything  in  life  is — I,  to- 
night, am  inclined  to  think,  tired  to  the  quick 
as  I  am  by  my  efforts  to  cope  with  this  "set- 
tling-in"  process.  But,  take  notice,  when  I  am 
old — really  quite  old  (Cynthia  considers  I  have 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

passed  the  allotted  span  of  life  already,  and  sees 
little  to  choose  between  my  years  and  those  of 
Methuselah) — I  shall  drag  myself  back  to  Tol- 
carne,  to  "the  dull  confines  of  the  drooping 
west."  Old  age  does  not  strike  me  as  pretty 
in  cities.  You  must  lend  me  a  hovel  somewhere, 
and  I  will  be  no  trouble,  nor  expect  any  vege- 
tables. Remember,  remember  the  vegetable 
grievance,  and,  please,  let  old  Enticknap,  for 
peace's  preservation,  despatch  a  hamper  some- 
times, if  only  filled  with  his  beloved  cabbages. 
I  will  keep  bees,  and  sow  annuals — ^the  annuals 
that  used  to  grow  in  "the  children's  garden" 
when  we  were  children.  And  I  will  sit  and  sun 
myself  on  a  seat,  wind-sheltered,  and  Cut  in  a 
wall  betrained  with  apricots. 

It  will  be  very  comfortable. 

Good  night,  good  brother. 

P.P.S. — Do   not   forget  the  vegetables.     Do 
not  forget  "Only  a  Woman's  Heart." 


10 


II. 

From  Sir  Richard  Etchingham  to  Miss  Elisabeth 
Etchingham. 

My  dear  Elizabeth, — I  congratulate  you  on 
having  effected  the  concentration  of  your  mis- 
cellaneous forces  in  town  without  having  'any 
casualty  to  report.  As  to  good  order,  perhaps 
I  had  better  say  nothing.  Your  description  of 
the  scene  on  the  platform  is  rather  like  the  too 
famous  retreat  of  Colonel  Monson :  Chore  par 
haiidah,  hdthi  par  sin — in  English,  adapted  to  the 
circumstances,  "Dogs  in  cages,  and  dicky-birds 
in  muzzles."  However,  there  you  are,  and  still 
the  best  of  correspondents,  though  I  no  longer 
have  to  rely  on  you  for  home  news.  We  used  to 
dream  of  being  together  when  India  had  no 
more  use  for  me ;  instead  of  which  we  find  our- 
selves comparing  notes  on  setthng  down  in  dif- 
ferent places. 

It  is  good  to  be  here  in  English  country, 
among  bright  English  faces,  hearing  the  rich 
Western  talk.  And  yet  there  is  a  kind  of  Asia- 
tic home-sickness  with  it.  One  does  miss  the 
cheerful  brown  babies  (clear,  lustrous  bronze, 
not  the  muddy  tint  that  comes  of  mixing  negro 
and  white),  and  the  coppersmith  with  prehensile 

II 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

toes  who  sits  hammering  in  his  open  shop-front, 
while  a  small  boy  next  door  is  making  his  first 
copy  of  bold  square  Nagari  letters  in  an  equally 
open  manner,  and  quite  unmoved  by  the  noise. 
And  I  am  sorry  to  think  that  I  may  not  expect 
to  see  my  old  friend  Ram  Singh  again.  I  have 
told  you  of  him — a  poor  gentleman  with  noth- 
ing in  the  world  but  his  bit  of  land  and  his 
grandfather's  tulwar,  which  he  carries  tucked 
under  his  arm,  according  to  the  privilege  of 
Native  States.  And  he  will  look  any  one,  from 
the  Viceroy  downwards,  straight  in  the  eyes, 
and  talk  to  him  with  the  most  perfect  manners, 
knowing  what  he  owes  to  himself  as  a  Rajput 
of  ancient  family,  and  assuming  that  the  Eng- 
lishman knows  it — 'as,  if  he  is  worth  his  salt,  he 
does.  Walter  Scott  would  have  understood 
Ram  Singh  down  to  the  ground.  (I  hope  to 
live  to  see  the  public  understand;  that  is  the 
only  final  security  against  the  formulizing  crea- 
tures of  pens  and  ink  who  infest  all  govern- 
ments, even  the  most  God-granted.)  There 
must  have  been  such  people  in  the  Highlands, 
almost  within  living  memory. 

I  have  broken  ofif  for  a  hunt  in  my  battered 
copy  of  Colonel  Tod's  "Rajasthan,"  one  of  the 
most  fascinating  and  worst  arranged  books  in  the 
world.  At  length  I  find  the  story  of  the  young 
Rajput  sepoy,  who,  being  alone  in  charge  ot  an 
elephant,  was  set  upon  by  about  fifty  robbers, 
fired  on  them,  and  was  cut  down  and  left  desper- 
ately wounded.  Having  been  brought  into  camp, 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

j  "he  was  firm,  collected,  and  even  cheerful ;  and, 
to  a  kind  reproach  for  his  rashness,  he  said,  'What 
would  you  have  said,  Captain  Sahib,  had  I  sur- 
rendered the  Company's  musket  without  fight- 
ing?' "  All  this  packed  away  in  a  casual  foot- 
note. Compani  kd  bandiiq  is  dead  and  buried,  and 
John  Company  too;  but  the  Rajput  breed  is 
there  still,  and,  moreover,  can  shoot  straight 
as  well  as  fight,  now  that  there  is  something 
better  than  the  musket  of  -our  ancestors  to  shoot 
with. 

But  this  is  Tolcarne,  and  I  am  no  longer  a 
Political,  but  a  squire,  or  squireling,  of  Wes- 
sex;  and  you  ask  me  for  the  news. 

Vegetables  you  shall  have  as  soon  as  it  pleases 
the  elements  and  Enticknap.  Talk  not  to  me  of 
terrifying  curates,  but  teach  me  how  I  may  be 
delivered  from  grovelling  before  Enticknap.  A 
certain  dignity  is  "expected  of  me"  by  the  tradi- 
tions of  the  service ;  but  what  is  a  poor  man  to 
do  who  knows  nothing  of  English  gardening?  I 
have  corresponded  with  official  superiors,  in- 
terviewed holy  men  of  several  religions,  clean 
and  dirty,  clothed  and  unclothed,  in  their  right 
minds  and  otherwise,  and  all  unshakeable  in 
argument  (Harry  knows  the  other  end  of  one 
of  those  stories.  I  mentioned,  by  the  way,  to 
the  Mullah  at  parting,  as  a  piece  of  family  news, 
the  impending  arrival  of  Harry's  battery  in 
camp,  and  we  heard  no  more  of  the  tribal  saint 
growing  half  a  cubit  a  week  in  his  grave) ;  and 
I  have  wholly  failed  to  make  any  impression  on 

13 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

a  globe-trotting  anti-opiumist ;  but  your  gar- 
dener is  the  only  true  infallible.  Enticknap  says 
the  almonds  are  blighted  like.  Do  I  know  what 
he  means?  No.  Why  don't  I  ask  him?  What? 
Would  you  have  me  tamper  with  the  founda- 
tions of  belief?  Perhaps  you  may  know,  though. 
Enticknap  admits  no  difiference  of  opinion  in 
matters  of  gardening,  but  I  believe  him  to  admit 
that  you  are  capable  of  understanding  his  rea- 
sons. Anyhow,  there  is  no  almond  blossom  yet. 
As  to  our  people — animals  first,  of  course. 
Marlin  the  ancient,  who  was  young  and  frisky 
when  I  last  went  out,  is  confirmed  in  his  opinion 
that  I  am  really  the  same  person.  Songstress, 
apparently  so  called  from  being  of  a  rather  silent 
habit,  and  of  even  more  melancholy  looks  than 
a  basset-hound  has  any  right  to  be,  has  taken 
a  sort  of  quiet  fancy  to  Margaret.  Curates'  legs 
do  not  interest  them,  naturally.  Why  should 
they?  Bishops'  legs,  now — nice  tight  gaiters  all 
over,  buttons  to  take  hold  of — are  quite  different. 
Dear  old  Bishop  Abraham  was  irresistible  to 
the  college  beagles  at  Eton.  It  was  against  eti- 
quette for  him  to  notice  their  existence — and  he 
didn't.  Mr.  Weekcs  must  either  be  nervous 
about  dogs,  or  generally  anxious  about  his  own 
person,  or — as  indeed  you  most  plausibly  con- 
jecture— at  a  pass  for  something  to  say.  He  is 
but  a  kutcha  sort  of  young  padre,  or  it  might 
be  justcr  perhaps  to  say,  in  literal  English,  half- 
baked,  for  he  may  make  a  man  yet.  Just  now  he 
is  distracted  between  shyness  and  zeal  to  improve 

14 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

in  cycling  (it  will  be  so  useful  to  him  for  visit- 
ing his  flock  in  a  scattered  parish).  Margaret 
is  the  only  person  here,  for  the  moment,  who 
knows  much  about  it,  and  she  conducts  us  on 
easy  rides  fit  for  beginners.  She  says  she  won't 
answer  for  the  consequences  if  either  of  us  is 
turned  loose  on  these  roads  before  she  certifies 
us  quite  safe.  If  I  am  a  good  old  man,  she  holds 
out  hopes  that  in  a  few  weeks  more  I  may  ride 
all  the  way  down  the  hill  to  Little  Buckland. 
You  know  the  curve  and  the  steepness  thereof 
— no,  you  don't ;  looking  down  a  hill  from  a 
bicycle  is  quite  unlike  looking  down  it  in  any 
other  position.  At  present,  that  caution-board 
is  more  formidable  to  me  than  any  Ghazi's  green 
turban  to  any  soldier.  Our  cousin  Jem  of  Sil- 
vertoe  is  said  to  be  a  mighty  man  of  wheels ; 
I  am  writing  to  him  for  some  general  advice,  as 
Mr.  Weekes,  having  an  inordinate  respect  for 
every  kind  of  authority,  and  having  heard  of 
Jem  in  that  capacity  from  some  Oxbridge  friend, 
would  not  rest  till  I  did.  That  youth  would 
rather  be  stuck  on  the  devil's  pitchfork — ^being 
the  real  proper  devil — than  wafted  to  heaven  on 
the  wings  of  an  unlicensed  seraph.  However, 
Jem  ceases  from  his  lectures  in  a  week  or  two 
now,  so  there  is  no  harm  in  asking  him.  Weekes 
is,  so  far,  less  able  on  his  machine  than  I  am ; 
but  he  has  got  up  the  slang  elaborately,  and 
indited  a  list  of  questions  for  Jem  which  I  don't 
more  than  half  understand.  .  .  .  Margaret 
sends  me  packing  to  dress  for  dinner.     What 

IS 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

a   treasure   is   a    methodical    daughter !     .     .     . 
I  came  home  to  enjoy  a  spell  of  being  governed. 

Monday  night. — Also  not  to  have  a  mail-day  to 
think  of.  This  Aryan  brother  is  going  to  say 
abhynay  when  he  likes,  now  he  is  mustered  out. 
Yes,  we  like  the  Folletts  already.  The  little 
old  gentleman  is  quiet,  seems  dry  at  first ;  I 
thought  we  should  never  get  much  forwarder. 
But  never  make  formulas  about  people  till  you 
know  them  (did  you  teach  me  that  principle?), 
and  best  not  then.  Towards  the  end  of  his  re- 
turn visit,  Margaret  mentioned  that  the  eminent 
restoring  architect,  Mr.  Newpoyntz,  had  been 
seen  at  the  station.  "Not  to  do  anything  to  the 
church,  Mr.  Vicar?"  says  I.  "Saving  my  cloth," 
says  he,  "I  would  sooner  curse  him  with  the 
curse  of  Ernulphus  than  have  him  touch  a  stone 
of  it."  "Is  it  so?"  cried  I,  and  took  down  the 
little  "Tristram  Shandy"  that  used  to  go  my 
rides  with  me  in  one  pocket,  to  balance  the 
Penal  Code  in  the  other.  "Indeed,  Sir  Richard," 
said  he,  just  a  little  taken  aback,  with  the  book 
in  his  hand,  and  a  queer  little  pucker  about  his 
lips,  "by  the  virtue  of  this  book,  I  am  bold  to 
profess  myself  a  humble  admirer  of  the  late  Mr. 
Sterne — as  a  man  of  letters."  So  thereupon  we 
are  friends :  not  yet  so  far  as  the  fricnd-of-your- 
friends-and-enemy-of-your-enemies  footing.  We 
shall  see.  Nobody  can  tell  me  to  what  school  of 
theology  Mr.  Follett  belongs,  and  that  I  like 
well,  too. 

i6 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

For  one  fruit  of  our  acquaintance,  the  Vicar  is 
to  show  me  in  Selden's  "Titles  of  Honour," 
when  I  am  next  at  the  parsonage,  some  profit- 
able matter  for  Sir  Augustus  and  the  Honour- 
able Order. 

I  note  your  family  news,  and  perceive  that 
my  training  in  the  political  department  is  not 
to  lie  rusty.  Meanwhile,  I  guess  many  things 
will  answer  themselves.  There  is  surely  some- 
thing I  forgot — yes,  we  call  the  new  cart-horse 
"Job,"  because  there  is  nobody  else  he  looks 
like.  From  your  loving  brother,  these — nay, 
we  have  royal  names,  and  it  pleases  me  to  sign 
as  a  sovereign. 

Sur  ce,  Madame  et  soeur,  que  Dieu  vous  ayt 
dans  sa  tressainte  garde. 

Richard  Etchingham. 

P.S. — I  have  read  "Only  a  Woman's  Heart." 
You  can  tell  Minnie  I  think  it  excellent.  What 
I  mean  is  the  title.  Not  that  I  believe  it  was 
her  own  invention. 


17 


III. 

From  Miss  Eli::aheth  Etchingham,  83  Hans  Place, 
to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Tolcarnc. 

Dear,  oh  dear,  oh  dear — the  vegetables  have 
never  come.  Elements  and  Enticknap  permit- 
ting or  not  permitting,  send,  best  of  brothers,  a 
mildewed  beetroot  or  frost-bitten  cabbage  at 
once.  Remember  that  our  immortal  feelings, 
not  our  mortal  appetites,  are  at  stake,  and  in 
such  a  case  a  very  turnip's  top  may  prove  am- 
brosia. 

"Lady  Clementine  Mure  never  buys  a  cab- 
bage."    The   cabbage-tide   flows   in   fast   from 

Mure   Hall.     "Mrs.    Carstairs   never "     As 

you  love  me,  Richard,  send  a  leaf  or  root. 

I  was  very  glad  to  have  your  letter.  To  see 
your  handwriting  on  any  but  the  transparent 
envelope,  stamped  with  the  far-away-looking, 
light-green  stamp,  gives  me  a  shock  of  pleasure, 
and  somehow  I  am  not  wholly  sorry  that  you 
in  Wessex  do  in  a  manner  regret  the  Land  of 
Regrets.  The  Land  of  Regrets  docs  not  get  its 
share  of  sentiment.  Our  countrymen  and  coun- 
trywomen pass  years  and  years  of  life  there,  and 
— unless  there  is  a  child's  grave  to  leave  for 
ever  also — they  can  say  an  eternal  farewell  to 

i8 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

India  witih  not  the  slightest  pulHng-up  of  them- 
selves by  the  roots. 

Yes,  I  seem  to  know  your  friend  Ram  Singh, 
his  nice  honour,  his  gentle  manners,  and  high 
courage,  and  I  wonder  if  he  is  the  Rajput  Colo- 
nel Newcome  —  Colonel  Newcome  with  a 
prouder  ancestry  behind  him. 

I  wish  you  would  make  a  book  of  Indian 
heroes  for  the  children's  reading  by-and-by.  (It 
goes  without  saying  nowadays  that  by  "the  chil- 
dren" we  mean  Charles's  and  Minnie's  boys.) 
These  recent  Frontier  campaigns  have  brought 
forth  deeds  of  heroism  sufficient  for  the  filling 
of  many  chapters.  I  wish  you  would  tell,  with 
other  stories  of  valour,  of  the  Sikhs  who  last 
June,  by  that  garden  wall  in  the  Tochi  Val- 
ley, lost  their  lives  to  cover  the  retreat  of  their 
wounded  comrades.  I  wish  you  would  put  into 
print  the  names  of  Subadars  Sundar  Singh,  ist 
Bengal  Infantry,  of  Narain  Singh  and  Sundar 
Singh,  1st  Sikhs,  who,  seeing  all  the  British 
officers  wounded,  got  together  a  party  of  their 
men,  making  a  most  determined  stand,  and  cov- 
ering the  withdrawal  whilst  themselves  under 
heavy  fire.  The  wording  of  the  despatch  con- 
cerning that  Tochi  Valley  garden-wall  site, 
which  I  read  first  in  the  copy  of  The  Madras 
Weekly  Mail  sent  by  Colonel  Leagrave  to  Cyn- 
thia, stuck  in  my  memory  like  a  burr.  "The 
conduct  of  Subadar  Sundar  Singh,  ist  Punjab 
Infantry,  at  the  place  where  he  died  was  most 
heroic.    At  this  place  many  other  men  also  be- 

19 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

haved  with  great  heroism.  All  those  who  fell 
there  gave  their  lives  to  cover  the  withdrawal 
of  their  comrades." 

You  will  like  the  boys.  Your  namesake  is  an 
attractive  creature,  and  little  Harry  a  Puck- 
like spirit.  Their  Uncle  Harry,  v/ho  from  the 
first  found  great  favour  in  their  sight,  proved 
in  levee  harness  a  ravishingly  splendid  spectacle. 
"I  speak  gwuff  and  wear  a  sward  like  Uncle 
Havvey,"  Harry  now  declares ;  and  since  the 
levee  day  he  and  his  brother  try  with  more  as- 
siduity than  success  "to  speak  gwuf¥." 

I  don't  know  if  "everything  is  spoilt  by  use," 
but  the  faculty  of  seeing  likes  and  unlikes  seems 
to  be,  and  seems  to  fade  with  childhood.  "Are 
they  the  petals  of  my  feet?"  Dicky  asked,  look- 
ing at  his  pink  toes  after  his  first  botany  lesson. 
(The  transcribing  of  babies'  babble  no  longer 
needs  an  apology,  since  wise  men  and  learned 
have  turned  their  scientific  attention  that  way.) 

The  children  will  prove,  I  hope,  a  source  of  in- 
terest to  our  stepmother ;  but  as  character  fixes 
the  point  of  view  of  every  situation,  woe  be  it  to 
each  one  implicated  should  the  perambulators 
stand  oftener  at  the  maternal  grandmother's  door 
than  at  the  door  of  the  step-paternal  ancestress. 
And  please  bear  in  mind  lest  the  gravity  of  the 
situation  escape  you,  that  the  dwelling  of  Mrs. 
Vivian,  measured  by  a  blue  silk  inch-measure 
on  the  map  of  London,  is,  if  anything,  further 
removed   from  Lower  Berkeley  Street  than   is 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

that  of  Laura,  Lady  Etchinghaim ;  so  the  doc- 
trine of  propinquity  cannot  excuse  the  too  fre- 
quent progress  thitherwards  of  the  nursery  peo- 
ple. 

I  thought  that  you  and  Mr.  Follett  would 
discover  each  other.  The  neighbours  generally 
— not  the  cottage  folk ;  they  swear  by  "Parson 
Follett" — are  inclined  to  look  askance  upon  him, 
and  to  call  his  orthodoxy  in  question.  Every 
one  in  the  country  does  not  go  with  you  in  pre- 
ferring charity  to  the  Creeds. 

Tell  me  if  the  "Titles  of  Honour"  supplies  in- 
telligence meet  for  Sir  Augustus,  who,  for  some 
reason  best  known  to  himself,  has  developed  a 
tendency  to  visit  us  incessantly.  He  seems  keen, 
also,  that  we  should  go  to  have  tea  at  the  Her- 
alds' Ofifice  with  some  one  known  to  him.  (What 
a  pity  it  is  that  he  is  not  a  pursuivant  himself. 
He  would  idolize  his  tabard.)  If,  as  I  expect, 
Mr.  Follett  unlocks  for  your  benefit  both  his 
heart  and  his  book-cases,  Tolcarne  will  blossom 
out  in  books  like  the  rose.  I  hold  in  affectionate 
remembrance  the  shelf  of  old  folio  editions  of 
the  English  classics.  It  was  from  that  shelf,  one 
afternoon  in  spring,  when  the  birds  sang  and 
the  sunlight  came  slanting  through  the  network 
of  mulberry  branches,  that  Mr.  Follett  took  and 
laid  upon  the  study  table  the  great  brown  volume 
in  which  I  first  made  the  acquaintance  of  "The 
Faerie  Queene."  The  rightful  adjuncts  to  "The 
Faerie  Queene"  still  seem  to  me  to  be  the  song 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

of  a  thrush,  gold  sunlight  slanting  through  tJhe 
branches  of  the  old  mulberry  tree  that  adorns  the 
parsonage  lawn,  and  the  scent  of  Mrs.  Follett's 
pale-blue  hyacinths. 

I  was  called  yesterday  from  my  writing  to  the 
drawing-room,  there  to  find  Mrs.  Vivian — be- 
tween whom  and  Laura,  by  the  way,  there  is  no 
love  lost.  Mrs.  Vivian  shocks  Laura ;  Laura 
bores  Mrs.  Vivian.  Is  it  better  to  be  bored  or 
shocked  ?  "To  be  bored,"  would  say  the  holy  ; 
"To  be  shocked,"  would  think  the  profane. 
(There  is  one  thing  about  it:  no  one  likes  to 
be  bored,  and  many  like  to  be  shocked.)  How- 
ever, I  trust  that  on  this  occasion  neither  Laura 
nor  Mrs.  Vivian  was,  thanks  to  the  other,  in 
extremis,  for  fate,  in  the  person  of  Harry  and  Sir 
Augustus,  provided  Mrs.  Vivian  with  'her  pana- 
cea for  all  ills — an  audience,  and  dowered  Laura 
with  a  dock  to  her  nettles  in  the  guise  of  a 
sympathizer — old  Mrs.  Carstairs. 

Mr.  Vivian's  taciturnity  was  the  subject  of 
Mrs.  Vivian's  flow  of  words.  (She  looks  as  pretty 
as  ever,  and  grows  younger  with  the  years; 
she  is  ten  years  younger  than  her  daughters 
already.)  "My  husband,"  she  said,  "never 
speaks,  unless  it  is  to  ask  if  any  one  has  seen 
his  umbrella,  or  knows  where  'Bradshaw'  is. 
When  I  tell  him  he  really  must  talk,  he  says  he 
can't — he  has  nothjng  to  say.  I  dare  say  he 
hasn't.  Still,  it  would  be  a  relief  if  he  would 
even  groan,  or  strike  the  hours,  like  the  clock." 
A  solemn  "Very  true"  here,  from  Sir  Augustus 


22 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

who  is  too  self-occupied  to  catch  the  gist  of 
words  that  have  no  bearing  upon  one  of  his 
own  hobbies,  and  a  significant  cough  from  Mrs. 
Carstairs,  whose  collection  of  present-day  crim- 
inals now  includes  Mrs.  Vivian. 

By  Laura,  of  course,  these  utterances  were 
taken  seriously,  and,  fortified  by  Mrs.  Carstairs's 
sympathy,  she  was  prepared,  had  a  pause  in  Mrs. 
Vivian's  oration  allowed  of  more  than  an  ejac- 
ulatory  reply,  to  argue  'that  "a  groan  from  the 
lips  of  a  dumb  animal,  even,  must  be  excessively 
painful  to  right-minded  hearers.  How  much  more 
so  from  the  lips  of  a  human  creature  whom  we 
love  and  honour."  Mrs.  Vivian,  speaking  in 
the  direction  of  Harry  and  Sir  Augustus,  went 
on  to  say  that  she  did  not  know  how  it  might 
be  with  right-minded  people,  she  seldom  came 
across  them,  but  she  would  often  be  glad  to  hear 
her  husband  groan,  just  to  prove  that  she  was 
not  sitting  alone  with  the  tables  and  chairs. 

At  this  point  we  were  invaded  by  Mr.  Big- 
gleswade (once  Jem's  Oxbridge  acquaintance, 
now  the  Vivian's  Dampshire  vicar).  Having 
pretty  well  ignored  our  stepmother,  whose  pol- 
iteness to  clergymen  of  every  persuasion  is  un- 
failing, he  produced  from  his  pocket  a  very  slim 
volume,  and  presented  it  to  Cynthia — "As  I 
promised." 

"Are  those  your  pagan  love-poems,  or  the 
verses  in  whidh  you  generously  patronize  Chris- 
tianity, Mr.  Biggleswade?"  inquired  Mrs.  Viv- 
ian.    "It  is  so  kind  of  Mr.  Biggleswade  to  be- 

23 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

lieve — most  thoughtful  and  considerate,  is  it 
not?"  Thereupon  Harry's  "gwuff"  laugh  was 
heard,  and  a  repetition  of  Sir  Augustus's  im- 
pressive ''Very  true."  Mr.  Biggleswade,  however, 
lost  none  of  his  jaunty  airiness  of  demeanour. 
He  fixed  his  Oxbridge  smile  for  a  moment  upon 
Mrs.  Vivian,  and  admitted,  as  he  seated  himself 
upon  the  sofa  by  Cynthia's  side,  that  he  "did  not 
pretend  to  be  one  of  the  old  school  of  clerics." 
What  he  then  went  on  to  say  to  Cynthia,  "not 
knowing,  can't  say,"  to  quote  old  nurse ;  but 
evident  was  it  that  his  discourse  embarrassed 
the  child.  As  the  colour  which  had  flickered 
in  her  cheek  since  Mrs.  Vivian  announced,  in 
quite  audible  tones,  "Miss  Leagrave  is  just  like 
a  Romncy,"  heightened,  Mr.  Biggleswade's 
bantering  laugh  grew  more  frequent.  Will  Har- 
ry go  to  the  rescue,  I  wondered,  or  shall  I  ? 
But  as  I  wondered,  lo  and  behold,  suddenly 
the  Oxbridge  smile  petrified,  Mr.  Biggleswade's 
cheek  blanched,  and  terror  wrote  itself  in  his 
eyes.  Had  influenza  marked  him  for  its  own? 
Had  he  just  developed  a  conscience,  or  a  heart 
disease?  No.  Dropping  my  gaze  from  his  face 
to  his  feet,  there  saw  I  our  Trelawney  suspi- 
ciously snuffing  the  Biggleswade  boots  ;  and  hav- 
ing sniffed  and  not  approved  what  did  our  Tre- 
lawney but  proceed  to  sharpen  his  claws  upon 
the  leg  of  Mr.  Biggleswade's  chair,  as  if  pre- 
paring weapons  of  attack.  Poor  pseudo-pagan 
love-poet.  Poor  patron  of  Christianity.  Poor 
disconcerter  of  shy  Cynthia.      With   an   inco- 

24 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

herent   reference   to   train-catching,  the    Thing 
was  gone. 

"Does  your  cat  like  cream,  Elizabeth?"  then 
asked  honest  Harry.  To  murmur  "Not  enough 
to  go  round"  was  to  waste  breath.  Out  ran  the 
contents  of  the  cream-jug  into  the  saucer  of 
Harry's  teacup,  down  to  the  very  last  drop. 
Lowlily  bent  Harry,  and  with  a  very  fair  imita- 
tion of  the  air  of  self-conscious  condescension 
with  which  Mr.  Biggleswade  serves  the  Church, 
did  Trelawney  deign  to  lap  the  cream  held  con- 
veniently by  a  major  in  Her  Majesty's  army  to 
the  level  of  his  Persian  lips.  There,  now  you 
know  all  about  it. 

As  to  that  bicycling  business,  well  can  I  pic- 
ture your  wicked  child  entertaining  herself  with 
Mr.  Weekes's  timidities ;  but  should  Jem  unbend 
in  his  reply  to  the  cycling  questions,  the  poor 
"half-baked"  man  will,  I  trust,  be  supplied  with 
an  expurgated  edition  of  Jem's  wit. 

And  now,  Richard,  put  kind  inquiry  concern- 
ing his  rheumatism  to  Enticknap,  pat  the  ancient 
Merlin  and  the  mute  Songstress  for  me,  and 
beg  Margaret,  as  cats  do  not  always  care  for 
caresses  to  make  Luna's  pat  from  me  a — pat  of 
butter. 

.Yours  to  command, 

Elizabeth. 

P.S. — Here,  as  a  postscript,  is  a  pretty  old  sad 
song  for  you : — 

25 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

"Qu'il  pleue,  qu'il  vente,  qu'il  neige 
Orage  ou  autre  temps, 
On  voit  toujour  sans  cesse 
Le  laboureur  aux  champs. 

"Le  pauvre  laboureur 
N'ayant  que  deux  enfants 
Les  a  mis  a  la  charrue 
A  I'age  de  dix  ans." 


26 


IV. 

From  Sir  Richard  Etchingham  to  Miss  Elisabeth 
Etchingham. 

My  dear  Elizabeth, — How  like  you  this  re- 
turn of  winter  out  of  season?  There  is  no  talk 
now  of  almond  blossom  or  any  other;  lucky  is 
the  plant  that  has  not  been  over-hasty.  Luckily 
for  Enticknap's  temper,  too,  he  is  not  idle,  for 
there  is  a  good  day  or  two's  work  in  clearing 
the  snow  off  every  piece  of  exposed  roof.  The 
drift  is  two  feet  deep  in  the  Little  Buckland 
lane,  mounded  by  thejivind  in  places  into  crests 
running  almost  to  a  knife-edge.  For  my  part, 
I  am  glad  to  be  away  from  town,  as  I  prefer 
clean  snow  to  dirty  mud ;  and  that  you  are  swim- 
ming in  mud  I  make  no  doubt.  And  so  yester- 
day being,  as  Pepys  would  say,  a  very  foul, 
snowing,  windy  day,  I  trudged  across  to  the 
Vicarage,  and  had  a  good  time  with  Parson  Fol- 
lett  among  his  books.  I  have  fancied  now  and 
again  that  I  was  really  meant  for  a  bookworm. 
On  the  other  'hand,  the  professional  scholars  I 
know  have  mostly  given  me  to  understand  that 
they  envy  those  to  whom  scholarship  is  a  recrea- 
tion ;  and  I  suspect  that  a  man  who  gives  him- 
self to  books  before  he  has  seen  anything  of  the 

27 


The  Etchiiigham  Letters 

world  is  but  penny-wise  in  his  own  craft,  for  it 
may  be  doubted  if  'he  will  ever  more  than  half 
understand  his  books.  The  Vicar,  at  any  rate, 
thinks  that  pure  ignorance  of  men  and  affairs 
is  answerable  for  many  astonishing  conjectures 
and  futile  controversies  of  learned  persons. 

We  had  out  Selden's  "Titles  of  Honor" — not 
Honour  with  a  ii,  so  much  for  the  new-fangled- 
ness  of  "American  spelling" — which  seems  to  be 
an  inexhaustible  mine  of  elaborate  frivolities.  He 
sets  forth  the  authentic  documents  about  the 
origin  of  Baronets  at  large,  and  nothing  can  be 
less  romantic.  We  date  from  1611.  King  James 
I.  founded  us  in  the  most  undisguised  manner 
to  raise  money  for  the  settlement  of  Ulster.  It 
must  be  allowed  that  he  did,  or  endeavoured 
to  do,  the  business  in  a  decent  fashion,  not  by 
way  of  selling  the  dignity  to  the  highest  bid- 
ders. The  transaction  was  for  a  fixed  price,  with 
ready  money  for  part,  and  good  references  for 
the  rest.  There  were  Commissioners  "for  treat- 
ing with  such  as  desired  to  be  created  upon  the 
terms  in  the  preamble  of  the  Patent,"  and  they 
were  instructed  to  inform  applicants  "that  those 
who  desire  to  be  admitted  into  the  dignity  of 
Baronets  must  maintain  the  number  of  thirty 
foot-Souldiers  in  Ireland  for  three  years,  after 
the  rate  of  eight  pence  sterling  Money  of  Eng- 
land by  the  day ;  And  tihe  wages  of  one  whole 
year  to  be  paid  into  Our  Receipt,  upon  passing 
of  the  Patent."  Mr.  Follett  bade  me  observe 
the  Scottish  prudence  of  the  king  as  to  the  sterl- 

28 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

ing  money  of  England;  Irish  money  was  worth 
much  less  (like  Scotch,  with  which — or  the  lack 
of  it — he  was  of  course  well  acquainted).  The 
applicants  had  to  show  both  a  personal  and  a 
property  qualification  besides  their  money :  the 
Commissioners  are  to  "proceed  with  none,  ex- 
cept it  shall  appear  unto  you  upon  good  proof, 
that  they  are  men  of  quality,  state  of  living,  and 
good  reputation  worthy  of  the  same ;  and  that 
they  are  at  the  least  descended  of  a  Grandfather 
by  the  Fathers  side  that  bare  Armes,  And  have 
also  of  certain  yearly  revenue  in  Lands  of  in- 
heritance in  possession.  One  Thousand  pounds 
per  Annum  de  claro,"  or  an  equivalent. .  Knights 
were  not  necessarily  to  be  preferred  to  esquires, 
knighthood  being  "such  a  mark  as  is  but  tem- 
porary." There  was  sense  in  this,  too,  said  Mr. 
Follett,  as  in  James  I.'s  time  several  of  the  best 
and  most  ancient  families  in  England  had  never 
been  anything  but  esquires  from  father  to  son, 
as  indeed  some  of  them  are  to  this  day.  Mr. 
Follett  himself  has  stayed  with  a  western  squire 
who  still  punctually  receives  a  rent  of  a  pound 
of  black  pepper  reserved  by  a  deed  of  t)he  thir- 
teenth century,  and  he  has  seen  a  writ  of  William 
Rufus  in  the  Record  Office  containing  the  identi- 
cal Christian  names  and  surnames  still  used 
by  the  same  family  at  the  same  place.  The 
secret  of  these  fortunate  stocks  must  have  con- 
sisted in  being  just  big  enough  people  to  hold 
their  own,  and  not  so  great  as  to  be  tempted  into 
high  treasons  and  other  dangerous  adventures. 

29 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

I  don't  think  James  I.  caught  many  of  them  to 
be  made  baronets.  I  am  glad  they  went  on,  and 
still  go  on,  as  plain  gentlemen ;  it  is  one  of  the 
things  that  make  an  English  gentleman's  posi- 
tion unique. 

James  I.  (to  return  to  his  new  creation)  was 
even  careful  to  provide  against  corruption  and 
extortion ;  every  newly  created  baronet  was  to 
take  his  oath  that  he  had  not  directly  or  in- 
directly given  more  for  the  dignity  than  the  regu- 
lation price  as  laid  down,  and  "the  charges  of 
passing  his  patent."  Also  there  is  a  strict  in- 
junction that  all  money  paid  in  is  to  be  kept  as 
a  separate  fund.  Selden  does  not  tell  us  how  far 
these  excellent  intentions  were  carried  out  in 
fact,  and  perhaps  he  did  not  choose  to  inquire. 
Within  a  year  "a  certain  controversie  touching 
Place  and  Precedence  between  the  younger  sons 
of  Viscounts  and  Barons  and  the  Baronets" 
arose  "out  of  some  dark  words  contained  in  the 
Letters  Patents  of  the  said  Baronets."  It  was 
solemnly  heard  by  James  I.  in  person  with  the 
aid  of  his  Council,  and  decided  in  favour  of  the 
younger  sons  of  viscounts  and  barons  by  a  long 
and  pompous  decree.  This  decree  contains  the 
king's  promise  to  the  baronets  not  to  create 
any  new  title  or  dignity  beneath  that  of  a  Lord 
of  Parliament  and  superior  or  equal  to  a  bar- 
onet's, which  has  ever  since  been  repeated  in  the 
patents  issued  to  new  baronets.  And  now  you 
are  at  least  as  well  qualified  to  discuss  the  Hon- 
ourable Order  and  its  privileges  as  Sir  Angus- 

30 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

tus  Pampesford.  Mr.  Follett  explains  to  me 
(for  I  really  knew  nothing  about  it)  that  the 
grievance  of  our  Order  consists  in  the  Crown 
having  declared  that  the  sons  of  Lords  of  Ap- 
peal (who  are  barons  only  for  life)  are  to  go 
before  us.  I  suppose  the  Crown  took  good  ad- 
vice, and  Mr.  Follett  as  much  as  said  he  could 
see  nothing  in  the  point;  the  question  seems  to 
be  whether  a  Lord  of  Appeal  is  a  real  baron,  or, 
if  you  please,  whether,  if  James  L  had  made 
Lords  of  Appeal,  he  would  have  considered  them 
real  barons.  It  might  have  been  a  pretty  ques- 
tion for  Jacobean  heralds  to  argue.  But  I  hope 
Sir  Augustus  will  not  meet  our  good  brother 
Charles  in  Hans  Place  or  elsewhere  while  his 
head  is  full  of  this,  as  Charles  would  certainly 
deliver  a  discourse  of  half  an  hour,  proving  to 
Sir  Augustus,  on  the  most  infallible  Liberal  prin- 
ciples, that  he  has  no  business  to  exist.  Perhaps 
I  should  have  swallowed  formulas  too  if  I  had 
stayed  at  home. 

Margaret  and  I  have  performed  our  dinner  at 
the  Squares.  The  dullness  was  just  what  you 
told  me  to  expect,  with  the  addition  of  their  long 
dining-room  being  horribly  cold ;  you  know  they 
are  people  who  live  by  the  calendar;  so  they 
have  taken  down  their  curtains  and  reduced  their 
fires  because  the  equinox  is  past.  Well,  "I  have 
seen  colder,"  as  an  early  saint  said  when  they 
asked  him  how  he  could  bear  standing  in  ice- 
cold  water ;  and  perhaps  I  have  seen  duller  at 
Indian  official  entertainments.     But  formal  din- 

31 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

ner-parties  are  a  necessary  evil  to  me  at  best. 
Margaret  is  anxious  to  keep  me  up  to  my  social 
duties,  and  tells  me  we  really  owe  it  to  the  neigh- 
bours. No  doubt  she  is  right,  especially  as  you 
do  not  contradict  her. 

Jem  has  written  to  me  from  S.T.C.,  and  it 
won't  do  to  show  to  Mr.  Weekes  at  all — in  fact, 
I  can  think  of  nothing  better  than  sending  it  on 
to  you  to  be  out  of  harm's  way.  Not  that  Laura 
would  be  pleased  with  it  either,  so  treat  it  with 
the  discretion  due  to  a  demi-official  communica- 
tion. By  the  way,  you  know  Laura's  little  habit 
of  questioning  people  about  their  letters  and 
wanting  to  see  them.  She  can  very  seldom — 
perhaps  never — be  gratified  so  far  as  mine  are 
concerned.  As  to  Weekes,  I  must  tell  him  that 
Jem  is  still  too  busy  to  answer  in  detail,  which 
is  true  so  far  as  it  goes. 

How    shall    I    have    my    Tod's    "Rajasthan" 
bound?     He  is  barely  holding  together.     You 
need  not  tell  me  to  ask  the  Vicar.     I  want  the 
benefit  of  your  taste  as  well  as  his  wisdom. 
Your  affectionate  brother, 

Richard  Etchingham. 

[Enclosure,] 

From  J  arms  Etchingham,  Assistant  Tutor  of 
Silvcrtoc  College,  Oxbridge,  to  Sir  Richard 
Etchingham,  Tolcarne. 

My  dear  Sir  Richard, — It  is  the  end  of 
term,  true  enough,  but  with  that  end  comes  a 

J2 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

business  called  Collections,  not  conducive  to 
leisure  for  tutors.  Anyhow,  I  don't  see  how  I 
could  answer  a  string  of  questions  from  a  man  I 
have  never  seen  which  range  over  the  whole  art 
of  cycling,  and  every  part  and  fitting  of  a  ma- 
chine, from  lamp  to  backstays.  The  short  an- 
swer to  about  three-quarters  of  them  is  that  it  is 
a  matter  of  taste,  and  he  had  better  find  out  what 
suits  him,  and  stick  to  it.  Otherwise  the  Rev. 
Septimus  may  take  in  a  penny  cycling  paper  and 
become  a  valued  correspondent.  He  can  get  as 
many  answers  as  he  likes  that  way,  and  I  should 
think  it  would  just  do  for  him.  If  you  wanted  to 
know  anything  I  could  tell  you  for  yourself,  that 
would  be  quite  different.  But  I  guess  I  may  be 
riding  about  your  country  in  the  vacation,  and  it 
will  be  simpler  to  call  in  person  one  day  and  see 
how  you  are  getting  on. 

However,  our  scholar  Blunham  was  in  my 
rooms  when  I  got  Mr.  Weekes's  requisitions. 
He  is  an  odd  fish :  I  think  I  pointed  him  out  to 
you  when  you  were  here.  He  is  said  to  have 
dropped  his  eyeglass  one  Sunday  when  he  was 
reading  the  first  lesson  in  chapel  (it  was  a  chap- 
ter of  the  Proverbs),  and  to  have  found  it  less 
trouble  to  invent  the  rest  of  the  chapter  than  to 
pick  up  the  glass.  He  has  taken  to  the  wheel  as 
the  most  independent  pastime,  and  rather  taken 
to  me  because  I  don't  mind  what  he  says,  don't 
expect  him  to  say  anything,  and  am  indulgent  to 
his  experiments  in  scholarship,  even  when  I  have 
to  point  out  to  him  that  he  should  reserve  orig- 

33 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

inality  till  he  is  through  the  schools.  We  were 
going  out  for  a  ride.  I  showed  him  Mr.  Weekes, 
and  he  twinkled  silently.  During  the  ride  he 
seemed  meditative,  and  latish  in  the  evening  he 
came  in  and  asked  me  abruptly  if  I  had  heard  of 
the  Professor  of  Aramaic's  last  discovery  of  some 
new  fragments  apparently  belonging  to  an 
apocryphal  wisdom-book.  Now,  Aramaic  is 
not  a  Greats  subject,  and  so  I  gave  him  my 
thirteenth  variation  this  week  on  the  theme  that 
a  fourth-year  scholar  who  aims  at  a  first  should 
not  be  too  much  interested  in  too  many  things  at 
once.  He  remarked  that  he  had  no  intention  of 
reading  the  original,  but  had  obtained  a  private 
copy  of  the  Professor's  translation  in  the  first 
draft,  and  thought  I  might  like  to  see  it.  This 
is  what  he  offered  me. 

As  a  pair  of  wheels  that  run  truly  with  a  pleas- 
ant murmuring,  so  is  the  talk  of  man  and  wife  in 
an  house  which  is  well  ruled. 

As  the  noise  of  a  cheap  crock  which  rattleth, 
so  is  dissension  in  the  house  of  a  niggard  and  a 
sloven. 

The  inches  of  our  gear  are  three  score  and 
ten ;  and  though  there  be  some  so  strong  that 
they  ride  four  score,  yet  is  their  speed  but  labour 
and  sorrow  at  the  day's  end,  when  they  fetch 
their  wind  short  upon  an  hill. 

Blessed  is  the  damsel  whose  cruse  of  oil  failcth 
not,  and  who  lookcth  to  her  own  tires ;  and  be- 
hold, he  that  takcth  her  to  wife  shall  prosper. 

34 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Three  things  are  plagues  to  a  wheelman — yea, 
and  a  fourth  is  abominable :  a  boy  which  leadeth 
an  unruly  horse,  and  a  swine  which  strayeth  in 
the  road,  and  a  rash  woman  among  traffic  which 
regardeth  not  the  right  hand  or  the  left ;  but  the 
most  grievous  is  a  County  Council  which  scat- 
tereth  heaps  of  stones  in  the  highway  and  saith, 
It  is  well  mended. 

My  son,  beware  of  inventors  which  promise 
marvellous  things  with  their  mouth,  lest  when 
thou  puttest  thy  trust  in  their  many  inventions 
thou  be  overthrown  in  stony  places. 

Take  heed  unto  thy  riding  in  strange  bor- 
oughs, and  fall  not  into  transgression  of  their 
by-laws,  lest  thou  be  worsted  in  striving  with 
them  that  swear  valiantly  before  the  judgment- 
seat. 

Of  two  manner  of  people  thou  shalt  have  a 
care,  and  flee  from  the  third  as  an  host  of  the 
heathen :  a  deaf  man  which  walketh  in  the  dark- 
ness, and  children  which  run  violently  out  of 
school  at  noontide,  and  a  constable  with  girded 
loins  who  lurketh  after  sunsetting. 

Perhaps  even  Mr.  Weekes  need  not  be  warned 
against  the  current  advertisement  of  this  type : — 

Genuine  Offer. 
Selvedge  &  Trimmings 

Have  taken  up  the  Cycle  Trade  as  a  branch  of  their 
world-wide  Drapery  Stores. 

35 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Selvedge  &  Trimmings  will  present  Every  Lady  Cus- 
tomer who  sends  in  One  Hundred  of  their  Five-Shilling 
Coupons  within  the  half-year  with  one  of  their  dainty 
and  deliciously  running 

Roly  Poly  Cycles. 

Voters  roll  to  Early  Polls 

On  Roly  Poly  Cycles; 
Bustling  bakers  bring  your  rolls 

On  Roly  Poly  Cycles; 
Holy  Missioners  mind  your  souls 

On  Roly  Poly  Cycles. 

Dear  Madam, — Have  yon  passed  your  youth  f  You  will 
pass  him  easily  if  you  are  riding  a  Roly  Poly  Cycle 
and  he  is  riding  anything  else. 

A  fair  customer  writes: — After  being  unable  for 
many  years  to  take  any  kind  of  exercise,  I  have  been 
for  a  fifty-mile  ride  on  a  Roly  Poly  Cycle.  My  doc- 
tor agrees  with  me  that  I  shall  never  want  to  ride  any 
other. 

You  will  never  want  to  repair  your  Roly  Poly 
Cycle  after  its  first  season. 

Chainless  cycles  are  largely  advertised  at  fancy 
prices.  Your  Roly  Poly  Cycle  will  be  chainless  after 
the  first  hundred  miles. 

Madame  Sarah  Bernhardt  writes: — I  never  fully  re- 
alised the  joys  of  decadence  before  I  coasted  down  the 
EifTel  Tower  on  a  Roly  Poly  Cycle. 

Ask  for  Selvedge  &  Trimmings's  Illuminated  Cycle 
Catalogue. 

36 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Here  comes  a  man  with  an  essay  on  the  Pla- 
tonic Number.  I  know  it  will  be  about  every- 
thing except  the  text. 

Yours  most  truly,  rigidly,  and  rotarily, 

Richard  Etchingham. 


37 


From  Miss  EUzahctli  Etchingham,  83  Hans  Place, 
to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Bart.,  Tolcarnc. 

Dear,  dearest  Richard, — Thank  you  very 
much  for  the  vegetables ;  but,  oh,  the  irony  of 
life.  The  vegetables  waited  to  come  till  a  time 
when  my  spirit  refused  to  feed  upon  Wessex 
beetroot  or  to  find  solace  and  refreshment  in  a 
Tolcarne  Brussels-sprout. 

I  am  about  to  issue  a  writ  to  inquire  into  the 
state  of  Sir  Augustus  Pampesford's  mind.  You 
will  say  that  the  proceeding  is  not  premature 
when  I  tell  you  that  since  Monday  my  time  has 
been  fully  occupied  in  refusing  the  hand  and 
heart  of  the  honest  man  who  condones  mental 
inferiority  for  the  sake  of  respectable  birth.  And 
there  seems  no  end  to  the  business.  What  am  I 
to  do?  I  have  been  driven  to  hint  that  I  would 
rather — so  low  are  my  taste — tramp  the  country 
selling  baskets  than  live  or  die  as  Lady  Pampes- 
ford  of  Pampesford-Royal ;  but  nothing  pene- 
trates, and  notes  still  come  on  the  thickest, 
glossiest  paper,  emblazoned  with  the  Pampes- 
ford  crest  and  motto  (crest — a  crowned  peacock ; 
motto — 'T  lead"),  in  the  when-you-have-duly- 
considercd-lhc-matter  strain.     "An  alliance  be- 

38 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

tween  two  ancient  and  honourable  families," 
"The  houses  of  Etchingham  and  Pampesford" 
— no,  "Pampesford  and  Etchingham."  It  is 
more  than  I  can  cope  with,  and  I  beg  and  im- 
plore you  to  write  to  him  yourself  and  tell  him — 
tell  him  that  I  am  a  Katherine  Shrew  sort  of 
person ;  that  I  am  a  certified  lunatic,  and  only  at 
large  for  the  Easter  vacation  and  to  help  my 
family  settle  themselves  in  London  (the  very 
task  for  a  lunatic) ;  that  we  are  not  the  real 
Etchinghams,  after  all,  of  Tolcarne,  Wessex,  and 
Heddingley,  East  Anglia,  with  a  forbear  who 
represented  his  county  in  Edward  II. 's  Parlia- 
ment, but  mere  mushrooms,  who  took  the  name 
and  arms  of  the  original  stock.  Tell  him,  too, 
that  though  I  accepted  a  copy  of  "The  Armorial 
•Families  of  the  Universe,"  and  wrote  and 
thanked  him  for  the  book  before  I  cut  the  pages 
(a  plan  I  learnt  from  you,  when  doubtful  as  to 
the  matter  to  be  found  therein),  I  did  not  look 
upon  the  acceptation  of  the  volume  as  a  pre- 
amble to  marriage  with  the  man.  Tell  him  that 
I  am  married  already :  so  I  am — to  a  memory. 

You  see,  I  have  no  one  here  to  whom  to  speak 
of  this  absurd  affair.  Good  Harry's  fidelity  of 
nature  extends  to  his  jokes ;  and  did  this  subject 
for  ridicule  reach  him,  he  would  not  have  done 
with  chafifing  till  Doomsday.  Experience,  in  fact, 
teaches  that  the  longer  he  has  a  joke  about  him 
the  more  valuable  and  serviceable  it  becomes. 
And  did  I  confide  in  Laura,  not  only  would  she 
weep  over  me  as  I  broke  the  news,  but  for  days 

39 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

after  I  should  see  tears  gathering  in  her  eyes 
whenever  she  looked  in  my  direction.  Laura  has 
always  held  tears  to  be  the  fit  environment  of 
marriage  engagements,  and  even  tidings  of  a 
Pampesford  proposal  would  unnerve  her  at  once. 

Later. — Your  letter  has  just  come.  Would  it 
be  judicious  or  not,  under  the  circumstances,  to 
make  over  the  baronite-lore  to  Sir  Augustus? 
Were  my  heart  as  bad  as  my  temper,  I  should 
be  inclined  to  wish  that  he  would  take  to  a  "Roly 
Poly  Cycle"  himself.  Doctors  no  longer  re- 
quired, only  grave-diggers.  I  never  saw  a  man 
who  looked  to  me  as  if  he  would,  if  he  could,  so 
thoroughly  enjoy  the  importance  of  his  own  fun- 
eral as  does  Sir  Augustus.  I  am  not  really  brutal 
enough  to  desire  his  removal  by  death,  but  he  is 
making  my  life  a  burden  to  me  at  present,  and 
I  think  Jem's  ingenious  friend  might  be  less  use- 
fully employed  than  in  producing  an  apocryphal 
Book  of  Job  for  my  recitation. 

How  these  days  that  have  something  of  spring 
about  them  make  me  wish  to  shake  the  dust  of 
London  off  my  feet  and  take  tickets  to  Much 
Buckland  for  poor,  country-loving  Tracy  and 
myself.  I  long  to  see  the  blowing  of  the  daffo- 
dils, the  Wessex  "Lent-roses,"  in  Little  Buck- 
land  meadow,  and  the  flitting  to  and  fro  of  the 
long-tailed  tits,  to  whom  the  alders  by  the  river 
serve  as  withdrawing-rooms.  (Birds  are  con- 
servative,   I   think,  in  their  vocabulary.)     The 

40 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

first  breath  of  spring,  when  it  reaches  one  in  a 
town,  is  depressing.  It  is  at  least  to  me,  and 
gives  me,  with  its  suggestion  of  the  unattainable, 
a  doleful,  Amiel-melancholy.  But  stay  here  I 
must,  for  Laura  cannot  be  left.  If  you  ever  see 
in  your  sister  any  sign  of  this  inconvenient  in- 
ability, please  crush  it  out  at  once.  People  who 
cannot  be  left,  and  who,  therefore,  must  be  pro- 
vided with  constant  companionship,  levy  a  rather 
hard  tax  upon  their  relations.  But  Laura  is 
made  so,  and  I  do  not  feel  it  my  duty  to  discipline 
her  out  of  her  faults,  as  would  some  one  cast  in 
the  special  constable  mould.  It  is  impossible  to 
persuade  her  to  leave  home  herself  during  the 
rheumatism  regime.  She  is  starved  in  her 
friends'  houses  for  want  of  proper  food,  poisoned 
by  the  strength  of  their  tea,  roasted  by  their  fires 
or  blown  out  of  window  by  their  draughts. 
(Other  people's  draughts  are  draughts ;  our  own 
are  ventilation  all  the  world  over,  you  may  have 
noticed.)  So  here  I  am,  and  here  must  I  remain. 
Laura  now  breakfasts  in  her  own  room — the 
habit  is  one  to  be  encouraged — and  when  letters 
come  by  the  first  post  I  am  not  bombarded  with 
questions ;  so  write,  write,  write,  write,  Richard. 
Do  not  fail  me  in  this  ridiculous  Pampesford 
affair. 

Your  loving  Sister, 

Elizabeth. 

P.S. — I  have  the  blues.    Be  very  amiable  when 
you  write. 

41 


VI. 

Sir  Richard  Etchingham  to  Miss  Elizabeth 
Etchingham. 

My  dear  Elizabeth, — This  is  the  most  ex- 
traordinary joke :  don't  think  me  unfeeHng,  but 
read  on  and  understand  why  you  can  afford  to 
take  Sir  Augustus  with  levity.  Have  I  ever  seen 
him?  I  rather  think  not.  Certainly  I  have  not 
seen  "The  Armorial  Families  of  the  Universe," 
but  I  suspect  you  will  find  in  that  great  work  a 
certain  vagueness  about  the  circumstances  at- 
tending the  succession  of  the  great  Pampesford 
family  in  its  present  branch.  For  now  I  know 
what  I  know,  and  what  you  shall  know  in  a  few 
lines  more.  In  short — but  I  think  the  method 
of  all  female  gossips  and  most  male  pleaders, 
namely,  to  begin  from  the  beginning  in  strict 
order  of  time,  will  be  best  in  this  case.  You 
know  old  Mrs.  Tallis  who  lives  by  herself  at  Lit- 
tle Buckland — at  least  you  know  about  her — 
and  how  she  has  wanted  for  years  to  negotiate 
an  exchange  of  two  little  odd-shaped  corners  of 
our  respective  properties  to  round  off  our  boun- 
daries, and  how  in  my  father's  time  Laura,  for 
no  reason  she  would  assign  except  that  she 
thought   Mrs.  Tallis's   cap   not   suitable   to   her 

42 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

years,  would  not  let  him  hear  of  it,  whereby  such 
slender  relations  as  Tolcarne  ever  had  with 
Fuchsia  Dene  were  suspended ;  or  rather  all  this 
is  better  known  to  you  than  to  me.  Now  you 
may  be  guessing  (with  swift  feminine  skipping 
of  all  the  intermediate  diplomatic  events  and 
matters  of  inducement)  that  Mrs.  Tallis  has  a 
niece  with  prior  claims  on  Sir  Augustus,  or  is 
even  entitled  by  precontract,  and  prepared  with 
all  the  terrors  of  a  breach  of  promise  action,  to 
lead  him  to  the  altar  herself;  and,  indeed,  it 
would  be  no  more  than  proper  dramatic  justice 
— but  it  is  not  that.  A  shame  to  keep  you  in 
suspense,  you  say?  Pray,  how  often  have  you 
told  me  that  men  always  spoil  a  story  by  leaving 
out  all  the  beginning  and  letting  out  the  end  in 
the  middle?  So  please  attend  to  the  real  story, 
which  is  coming. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  Mrs.  Tallis  had  been 
rather  badly  treated ;  but,  as  an  old  Political,  I 
was  afraid  of  starting  an  official  correspondence 
without  knowing  the  ground  a  little ;  you  see  the 
old  lady  might  have  fired  oflf  her  accumulated 
store  of  temper  in  some  form  that  would  have 
made  further  approaches  hopeless.  So  I  betook 
myself  to  our  excellent  Parson  Follett,  with 
whom  I  have  now  an  understanding  as  good  as 
an  alliance  in  most  things  that  concern  the  two 
Bucklands,  and  authorized  him  to  convey  my 
expressions  of  personal  regret,  and  assure  Mrs. 
Tallis  that,  without  discussing  past  unpleasant- 
ress  in  which  I  had  no  share,  and  which  I  had 

43 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

no  means  of  preventing,  I  should  be  happy  to 
reconsider  the  affair  in  a  neighbourly  spirit.  At 
the  date  of  my  last  letter  the  parson  had  seen 
Mrs.  Tallis,  and  she  said  very  little,  so  I  did  not 
mention  it  to  you  then,  not  knowing  whether 
anything  would  come  of  it.  However,  two  days 
later  I  get  a  very  polite  note  wishing  me  joy  of 
being  at  home  for  good,  hoping  to  be  out  and 
about  and  call  at  Tolcarne  when  weather  is 
warmer,  though  the  Buckland  hill  is  hard  work 
for  a  small  pony-carriage ;  finally  asking  me  if  I 
will  not  call  at  Fuchsia  Dene  next  Sunday  and 
take  a  dish  of  tea  without  ceremony.  Not  a  word 
of  business,  or  boundaries,  or  Laura.  Mrs. 
Tallis  has  not  lived  sixty — or  is  it  seventy? — odd 
years  for  nothing.  So  that  looked  promising, 
and  I  went. 

Mrs.  Tallis  was  as  gracious  as  might  be  in  a 
pretty  old-fashioned  way,  and  gave  me  the  best 
of  tea — you  know  my  weakness  that  way.  She 
wanted  to  know  all  about  the  Indian  Empire,  in- 
cluding a  second  cousin  once  removed  who  had 
been  on  railway  work  in  Travancore  about  ten 
years  ago ;  whereby  I  had  humbly  to  point  out  to 
her  that  Travancore  is  a  good  deal  farther  from 
Rajputana  than  Little  Buckland  from  Thursbor- 
ough,andyetwe  don't  know  everybody  in  Thurs- 
borough  ;  as  also,  one  house  and  one  division  at 
Eton  are  far  enough  from  one  another  to  disable 
Arthur  from  giving  Mrs.  Ginx  full  information 
about  her  nephew  in  the  fourth  form  who  has 
just  come  to  Poole's,  a  house  of  which,  as  it  hap- 

44 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

pens,  they  don't  think  much  at  Lytewell's. 
Luckily  Mrs.  TalHs  took  no  offence,  and  we  maf- 
fled  and  talked  on.  Did  you  not  once  tell  me, 
long  ago,  family  history  was  Mrs.  Tallis's  strong 
point?  Anyhow — and  most  luckily — it  is.  We 
came  somehow  to  the  grievances  of  the  baronets, 
and  I  mentioned  Sir  Augustus  Pampesford  as 
among  those  who  were  making,  in  my  opinion, 
an  absurd  fuss.  "Pampesford,  indeed !"  cried 
Mrs.  Tallis,  "he  is  as  much  Pampesford  as  you 
and  I  are  De  Coucy :  not  that  you  or  I,  Sir  Rich- 
ard, have  any  call  to  want  anybody  else's 
name."  And  out  comes  the  whole  story,  I  little 
thinking  how  useful  it  was  to  be  to  us,  but  tak- 
ing it  in  most  attentively,  both  because  it  was 
part  of  my  business  to  appear  amused,  and  be- 
cause it  really  amused  me.  You  shall  under- 
stand, then,  in  brief,  that  Isaac  Pfandersfurth  of 
Bremen,  merchant,  transferred  his  principal  seat 
of  business  to  England  some  little  time  before 
the  French  Revolution,  and  prospered.  This 
Isaac  had  a  son,  Solomon,  who  increased  the 
paternal  wealth,  and  became  acceptable,  doubt- 
less for  solid  reasons,  to  H.R.H.  the  Prince  Re- 
gent. Now  at  that  time  the  Pampesford  estates 
were  encumbered,  the  family  on  the  point  of  ex- 
tinction ;  and  one  fine  day  the  world  learnt  that 
Solomon  Pfandersfurth,  Esq.,  had  become  the 
owner  of  Pampesford  Hall  (it  was  not  "Royal" 
then).  Then  it  was  put  about  that  a  younger 
branch  of  the  Pampesfords  had  gone  crusading 
against  the  heathen  Prussians  in  the  fourteenth 

45 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

century,  perhaps  in  company  with  Chaucer's 
knight,  and  had  left  representatives  in  Germany 
whose  name  had  been  Germanized  for  con- 
venience. Presently  it  became  known  that  Solo- 
mon Pampesford,  Esq.,  formerly  Pfandersfurth, 
had,  with  all  proper  licences,  assumed  the  name 
and  arms  of  Pampesford ;  and  lastly,  after  a  de- 
cent interval,  his  Majesty  King  George  IV.  was 
pleased  to  create  Sir  Solomon  Pampesford,  of 
Pampesford-Royal,  a  baronet  of  the  United 
Kingdom.  Sir  Solomon,  Mrs.  Tallis  added,  per- 
petuated the  testimony  of  his  Englishry  and 
orthodoxy  by  building  a  church  in  the  most  ap- 
proved style  of  early  nineteenth-century  sham 
Gothic  just  outside  the  park  gates,  and  becom- 
ing a  strict  game-prcserv^cr  and  an  indifferent 
shot — an  example  which,  it  is  said,  has  been 
piously  followed  by  his  descendants.  We  have 
all  read  these  things  in  our  classical  novelists, 
and  it  seems  they  sometimes  happen. 

Well,  thereupon  I  enclose  you  a  letter  for  Sir 
Augustus,  which  you  may  close  and  forward,  if 
approved,  making  sure  that  the  address,  of  which 
I  am  a  little  doubtful,  is  quite  correct.  If  you 
think  it  too  risky,  I  will  alter  it ;  but  I  suppose 
you  arc  not  over-anxious  to  keep  up  the  ac- 
quaintance. May  I  trust  that  the  blues  are  dis- 
persed? 

As  I  was  taking  leave  of  Mrs.  Tallis  after  this 
long  talk,  of  which  she  had  done  most,  I  asked 
her  in  a  by-the-way  manner  if  she  remembered 
that  odd  three-cornered  piece  of  our  east  hams 

46 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

that  runs  into  her  land,  and  said  it  had  occurred 
to  me  in  walking  round  that  it  might  be  for  our 
mutual  convenience  to  have  a  little  adjustment 
of  boundaries  on  that  side.  Mrs.  Tallis  answered 
that  she  had  talked  enough  for  one  afternoon, 
and  had  no  wits  left  for  business,  but  she  would 
be  pleased  to  think  it  over  and  let  me  know. 
Then  she  caught  sight  of  Margaret  on  her  bi- 
cycle, who  had  been  round  on  errands,  and  came 
back  to  convoy  me.  We  had  meant  Mrs.  Tallis 
not  to  see  it  the  first  time ;  in  fact,  Margaret  was 
quite  sure  it  would  be  shocking  to  her.  But  she 
was  only  pleased  and  amused,  and  we  rode  off 
with  a  blessing  waved  after  us  from  the  porch. 
If  you  have  any  interest  left  for  my  small  afifairs, 
know  that  I  had  actually  ridden,  with  exceeding 
caution,  down  the  Little  Buckland  hill.  Mar- 
garet says  I  begin  to  do  her  credit.  Jem  may  be 
here  any  day  now,  and  will  perhaps  condescend 
to  put  some  touches  to  our  education.  There 
is  a  shade  of  something  amiss  about  Margaret 
these  last  days ;  she  looks  worried  at  times,  and 
I  don't  think  it  is  the  housekeeping  or  anxiety 
for  her  or  my  improvement  in  cycling.  No 
doubt  she  will  tell  me  in  good  time  if  it  is  really 
anything. 

The  Follets  are  expecting  one  Shipley,  a  v^ry 
learned  medievalist  from  the  Record  OfiEice,  to 
spend  a  few  days  at  the  Vicarage,  and  examine 
some  documents  in  the  neighbourhood,  or  in  the 
Thursborough  archives,  I  am  not  sure  which. 
They  have  hardly  met  Mr.  Shipley,  though  Mr. 

47 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Follett  knows  his  work  well.  Margaret  and  I 
are  to  help  to  entertain  him.  We  are  all  rather 
in  fear  of  the  learned  man,  and  try  to  comfort 
one  another  with  the  hope  that  he  may  not  turn 
out  altogether  too  weighty,  or  otherwise  very 
formidable. 

Your  affectionate  Brother, 

Richard  Etchingham. 

[Enclosure  in  No.  VI.] 

Sir  Richard  Etchingham  to  Sir  Augustus 
Pampcsford. 

Dear  Sir  Augustus  Pampesford, — My  sis- 
ter has  communicated  to  me,  as  head  of  the 
family,  the  substance  of  the  very  flattering  pro- 
posal you  have  been  pleased  to  make  to  her,  as 
well  as  of  her  own  views  already  expressed  to 
you.  She  is,  as  I  need  not  point  out,  fully  com- 
petent in  age  and  otherwise  to  form  her  own 
judgment,  and  I  must  add,  having  known  her 
from  our  childhood,  that  nothing  I  could  say 
would  be  likely  to  afifect  her  judgment  in  such  a 
matter.  It  is  not  for  me  to  indulge  my  own 
feelings  by  confirming  your  estimate  of  her 
qualities,  and  still  less  to  cast  doubt  on  your  dis- 
cernment by  pretending  to  dispute  it.  However, 
as  your  ancestor.  Sir  Solomon,  the  first  baronet, 
is  reported  to  have  said  to  some  one  who  pre- 
sumed to  censure  his  full  and  final  adoption  of 
English  customs,  shekels  are  silver,  but  sov- 
ereigns are  golden.     I  cannot  bring  myself  to 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

think  that  it  will  be  long  before  your  golden  tal- 
ents and  advantages  find  in  some  other  quarter 
metal  as  attractive  and  more  congenial. 
Believe  me,  dear  Sir  Augustus, 

Yours  very  faithfully, 

Richard  Etchingham. 
Sir  Augustus  Pampesford,  Bart.,  etc.,  etc. 
Pampesford-Royal. 


49 


VII. 

From  Miss  Elicabeth  Etchinghmn,  83  Hans  Place, 
to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Tolcarnc. 

Dear  Dickory, — Why  are  not  postmen  who 
drop  letters  into  wrong  letter-boxes  decapitated 
on  the  spot,  to  prevent  like  wrong-doing  in  fu- 
ture? Why,  if  postmen  drop  letters  into  wrong 
letter-boxes,  is  it  always  the  wrong  letters  that 
are  thus  consigned?  Why  was  it  not  the  black- 
edged  appeal  from  a  clergyman  for  funds  to  re- 
pair a  north-country  church,  of  which  I  had 
never  heard,  or  the  splendidly  gilded  and  bla- 
zoned offer  from  a  money-lender  to  Harry  of 
the  mines  of  Golconda,  or  the  bill  for  Laura's 
Sunday  bonnet,  or  the  invitation  to  Cynthia  to 
dance  at  Vivian-End  in  Easter  week,  that  the 
folly  of  the  postman  delayed  in  transmission 
rather  than  your  Pampesford  epistle?  I  will  tell 
you — because  man,  and  woman  also,  is  born  to 
trouble  as  the  sparks  fly  upward,  and  because 
desperately  wicked  is  the  heart  of  postmen. 

You  see,  thanks  to  this  postman  folly  and 
wickedness,  I  never  had  the  letter,  which  should 
have  come  at  breakfast-time,  till  the  moment 
whenTurnbnll  Itrought  it  into  the  drawing-room, 
ostentatiously  laid  upon  the  tea-tray,  and  all  un- 

50 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

sheltered  from  Laura's  eyes.  Never  trust  short- 
sig-hted  eyes  not  to  see,  nor  deaf  ears  not  to  hear. 
BHnd  eyes  and  deaf  ears  are  freakish  things,  and 
will  play  you  false  if  you  put  your  trust  in  them. 
Laura  saw  in  a  moment  from  whom  the  docu- 
ment stamped  with  the  Tolcarne  postmark  came, 
and  before  I  could  forge  a  reason  for  letting  it  lie 
unopened,  Turnbull  ushered  in  no  other  than  Sir 
Augustus  himself.  Really,  Laura's  policy  of  the 
open  door  has  much  to  answer  for.  (As  is  known 
to  you,  we  are  never  allowed  the  protection  of  a 
''Not  at  home,"  unless  we  are  down  with  an  in- 
fectious disease,  in  bed,  or  in  the  street,  but  sit  at 
the  receipt  of  custom  the  day  through  at  the 
mercy  of  all  the  unemployed  in  Christendom.) 
To  fill  up  the  cup  of  my  woes,  our  stepmother 
frustrated  my  attempts  to  leave  the  room,  and. 
alas,  I  can't  take  flight  through  these  French 
windows  into  the  harbour  of  the  shrubberv,  as, 
in  such  a  predicament,  would  have  been  my 
course  at  Tolcarne.  "Pour  out  the  tea,  dear 
Elizabeth,"  was  my  order;  "if  it  stands  too  long 
the  tannin  will  ruin  our  digestions."  Better  be 
tanned  to  shoe-leather,  I  thought,  than  retain 
one's  digestion  in  Sir  Augustus's  company ;  but 
this  reflection  I  had  to  keep  to  myself.  "And 
now  let  us  hear  the  Tolcarne  news,"  Laura  per- 
sisted ;  "I  am  sure  Sir  Augustus  will  forgive  my 
impatience  when  he  knows  that  it  is  a  fortnight 
since  we  heard  a  word  from  our  old  hom^."  (T 
have,  you  will  observe,  treated  your  communi- 
cations as  private.)    Alas,  alack,  from  first  to  last 

51 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

the  luck  was  against  me,  for,  when  forced  to 
open  the  letter  I  proceeded  to  break  the  seal,  up 
leapt  Trelawney  with  a  robust  purr  to  my  knee, 
and,  jerking  my  elbow  as  he  leapt,  jerked  out 
the  enclosure,  address  upwards,  to  Sir  Augus- 
tus's feet.  Alack,  alas,  the  envelope  I  saw  was 
open,  and  probably  meant  for  my  perusal  before 
delivery.  Means  of  escape,  however,  if  not  of 
victory,  were  at  hand,  and  sweeter  than  the  song 
of  nightingale  was  the  sound  at  that  moment  of 
Harry's  hoarse  shout  of  "Elizabeth !"  echoing 
through  the  house.  And  never  was  man's  call 
more  quickly  responded  to. 

Harry,  poor  fellow,  has  a  cold  in  his  head,  and, 
in  passing,  I  may  mention  that  far  less  to-do 
would  he  make  were  a  gun-shot  wound  his  com- 
plaint. "I  could  not  go  to  the  drawing-room 
after  you,"  he  explained,  "as  Turnbull  told  me 
that  ass  Pampesford  is  there  again ;  and  I  want 
to  know  if  the  time  hasn't  come  round  to  inhale 
this  beastly  eucalyptus  stuff."  So  your  letter 
was  read  whilst  the  bath-towel  that  enveloped 
brother  and  inhalation  shrouded  Harry's  proud 
head :  and  read  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  suf- 
ferer's sighs  and  piteous  appeals  to  be  told  if  "it 
isn't  long  enough."  And  yet  Harry  without  a 
qualm  would  have  stormed  Dargai's  heights, 
and  anything  else  really  formidable  that  you 
like. 

As  to  the  Pampesford  antecedents,  I  am  not 
surprised  by  what  you  tell  me.  The  glitter  points 
to  an  origin  of  the  sort.    I  do  wonder  what  the 

52 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

enclosed  missive  said.  It  is  pretty  sure  to  be 
effectual,  for  you  are  rightly  held  to  be  an  ef- 
fectual person  with  a  pen. 

Later. — And  what  do  you  think?  When — Sir 
Augustus  safely  out  of  the  house — I  went  back 
to  the  drawing-room,  there  I  found  Laura 
bathed  in  tears  and  declaring  herself  to  be  most 
deeply  hurt  by  our  secrecy,  our  duplicity,  our  all 
things  imaginable  that  are  bad,  in  concealing 
from  her  matters  that  concerned  our  very  heart's 
blood.  Sir  Augustus  had  evidently  let  her  know 
that  he  has  spent  his  time  during  the  last  fort- 
night in  offering  what  I  have  not  the  sense  to 
accept.  I  fear  that  poor  Laura's  feelings  are 
really  injured,  and,  of  course,  a  la  mode  of 
Laura,  she  turns  her  injuries  into  an  instance  of 
disrespect  to  our  father's  memory,  who  put  her 
"in  the  place  of  his  wife."  Her  sympathies,  I 
need  not  tell  you,  are  entirely  with  Sir  Augustus, 
who  is,  she  says,  "a  very  good-hearted  man."  I 
dare  say  he  is  good-hearted,  but  it  is  useless  to 
argue  with  her  that  the  absence  of  brutality  in 
his  nature  does  not  establish  his  right  to  marry 
any  unwilling  woman  he  may  fix  upon  as  a  de- 
sirable wife. 

Thursday. — Laura  still  wears  a  stone-wall  face, 
and  treats  me  with  a  sort  of  offended-governess 
air,  as  if  I  were  a  child  in  disgrace.  "I  am  not 
in  your  confidence,  Elizabeth,  and  therefore  am 
not   surprised   to   see   you   wearing   your   grey 

53 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

gown  instead  of  your  black,  or  buying  new  shoe- 
laces without  consulting  me."  As  an  olive 
branch,  I  have  written  to  beg  Mrs.  Carstairs  to 
come  to  tea  this  afternoon,  and  I  shall  retire  to 
my  room  early  in  the  entertainment,  so  as  to 
give  the  aggrieved  one  a  good  opportunity  of 
complaining  of  me.  What  more  to  please  can 
woman  do? 

Harry's  cold,  I  am  happy  to  tell  you,  is  better. 
and  he  is  not  to  die  of  it.  It  is  an  acknowledged 
thing,  indeed,  that  his  sneezes  will  not  land  him 
this  time  in  Hades,  and  he  talks  of  going  north 
for  a  week  at  Easter,  a-fishing.  The  Vivians 
have  invited  Cynthia,  also  Stephen,  to  stay  willi 
them  at  Vivian-End,  for  a  hunt-ball  next  week. 
\'ivian-End,  you  know,  is  Mr.  Biggleswade's 
cure,  and  I  am  thinking  of  packing  up  Trelaw- 
ney  with  Cynthia's  dancing-frock  as  Biggles- 
wade defence.  I  must  not  again  forget  what  I 
have  intended  to  tell  you  before,  which  is  that 
Stephen  would  very  much  like  an  invitation  to 
Tolcarne.  He  is  writing  the  life  of  some  west- 
country  mariner  for  the  ''Naval  Notabilities" 
series,  and  thinks  that  you  or  Mr.  Follett  can  af- 
ford him  some  valuable  information  on  Wessex 
sailor-lore.  Mrs.  Vivian  affronted  him  by  in- 
quiring if  Noah  was  to  be  included  in  the  "Naval 
Notabilities"  series. 

It  is  not  for  the  first  time,  perhaps,  that  Jem's 
expected  arrival  has  given  Margaret  a  worried 
look  ;  but  if  there  is  anything  to  be  told  to  you, 
she  will  tell  it  herself. 

54 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

I  think  I  know  the  Folletts'  expected  guest, 
Mr.  Shipley.  Is  he  not  brother  to  my  dear  Alice 
Newton?  I  think  so.  The  Newtons  have  taken 
a  house  in  Sloane  Street  for  three  months,  and  I 
shall  see  something  of  her,  I  hope.  Her  sister- 
in-law,  Mrs.  Ware,  came  to  see  us  the  other  day, 
a  woman  devoid  of  understanding,  who  thinks 
it  is  time  that  Alice,  whose  child  died  a  year  ago, 
"roused  herself."  Prolonged  grief  bores  the  on- 
lookers : — 

"They  bid  bereaved  Priam  smile, 
And  Niobe,  the  childless,  dance." 

We  are  all  allowed  to  be  unhappy  for  a  little 
while,  you  know ;  but,  then,  we  have  to  "begin  to 
get  over  it."  Poor  Alice,  I  think  she  found  in 
her  child  consolation  for  her  marriage.  (It  was 
Mrs.  Ware  who,  in  Indian  days,  finding  that 
some  one  she  considered  a  black  sheep  was  not 
tabooed  by  Bombay,  pleased  Harry  by  the  in- 
quiry, "What  is  the  use  of  being  respectable  if 
such  people  are  to  be  asked  to  Government 
House?") 

Don't  forget  that  it  is  "expected  of  you"  to 
invite  Charles  and  Minnie  in  the  course  of  time 
to  Tolcarne.  I  am  really  sorry  for  Minnie, 
a  propos  of  the  treatment  she  receives  from  her 
mother  in  the  matter  of  "Only  a  Woman's 
Heart" ;  and  I  feel  that  we  must  all  be  very 
good-natured  about  it,  and  make  the  most  of  our 
liking — or,  rather,  the  least  of  our  disliking — of 
the  book,  to  make  up.    When  I  went  to  see  Mrs. 

55 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Vivian  the  other  day,  I  was  followed  into  the 
house  by  Minnie,  who  came  in  quite  excited  and 
breathless  over  a  most  polite  newspaper  notice 
of  the  novel.  "My  dear  Minnie,  these  ridiculous 
reviews  are  either  written  by  people  who  have, 
not  read  the  book,  or  who  know  me,"  was  Mrs. 
Vivian's  comment.  "And  now  I  come  to  think 
of  it,  Hugo  Ennismore  writes  in  the  Minerva, 
and  there  is  nothing  foolish  that  he  would  not 
say  or  do  to  please  me,"  etc.,  etc.  This  was  hard 
on  Minnie,  and  she  was  all  tears  and  tremors  in 
a  moment.  Blanche,  the  pretty  younger  sister, 
is  much  happier  in  her  relations  with  her 
mother.  She  laughs  when  attacked,  and  Mrs. 
Vivian  receives  the  laughter  as  a  tribute  to  her 
humour,  and  is  appeased.  From  Mrs.  Vivian, 
on  the  same  occasion,  I  got  the  latest  intelli- 
gence in  printers'  blunders.  The  printer  of  a  re- 
port of  some  philanthropic  work  in  which  she  is 
interested  turned  "L'Union  Internationale  des 
Amies  de  la  Jeune  Fille"  into  "L'Union  Inter- 
nationale des  Arrics  de  la  Jeune  Fille."  What 
do  you  think  of  that? 

Thursday  evening. — Whilst  Laura  was  con- 
fessing my  sins  to  Mrs.  Carstairs  this  afternoon, 
I  read  some  chapters  of  Earle's  "Microcosmog- 
raphy" — the  new  reprint.  Perhaps  I  am  right, 
perhaps  I  am  wrong ;  but,  wrong  or  right,  I  pre- 
fer the  portrait  gallery  of  Theophrastus  to  that  of 
Earle,  and  that  of  old  Fuller  in  his  "Holy  and 
Profane  State"  to  either.    For  your  guidance,  as 

56 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

an  elder  brother,  I  might  make  over  to  you  an 
extract  from  the  character  of  "The  Elder 
Brother"  in  "The  Holy  State" : 

"He  relieveth  his  distressed  kinred,  yet  so, 
as  he  continues  them  in  their  calling.  Other- 
wise, they  will  all  make  his  house  their  hospitall, 
his  kinred  their  calling.  When  one  being  as 
Husbandman  challenged  kinred  of  Robert 
Grosthead  Bishop  of  Lincoln  and  thereupon  re- 
quested favour  of  him  to  bestow  an  office  on 
him,  'Cousen'  (quoth  the  Bishop),  'if  your  cart 
be  broken  I'le  mend  it ;  if  your  plough  be  old, 
rie  give  you  a  new  one,  and  seed  to  sow  your 
land,  but  an  Husbandman  I  found  you  and  an 
Husbandman  Fie  leave  you.'  It  is  better  to  ease 
poore  kinred  in  their  Profession  than  to  ease 
them  from  their  Profession."     Very,  very  true. 

Wars  and  rumours  of  wars :  what  will  come  of 
it  all?  I  pity  those  who  sit  in  kings'  and  presi- 
dents' and  prime  ministers'  places — 

"One  would  have  lingering  wars  with  little  cost; 
Another  would  fly  swift,  but  wanteth  wings; 
A  third  man  thinks,  without  expense  at  all, 
By  guileful  fair  words  peace  may  be  obtained." 

So  it  was,  so  it  is,  and  so,  I  suppose,  it  will  al- 
ways be. 

Do  not  dock  me  when  you  write  of  the  Tol- 
carne  news,  of  the  Tolcarne  sayings  and  doings. 
They  throw  up  the  window  and  freshen  the  air 
of  the  room  (ventilation,  not  draught).  Is  En- 
ticknap,   as   usual,   grudging  growing-room   to 

57 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

everything  but  a  cabbage,  and  hungering — I 
trust  futilely — to  dig  the  borders?  Don't  let 
him.  If  he  had  his  way  he  would  destroy  every 
vestige  of  blossoming  vegetation.  The  good 
creature  confuses  a  Sahara  and  a  flower-garden, 
and  all  that  he  does  not  cut  down  he  holds  it  his 
privilege  to  dig  up.  I  wonder  if  Merlin,  poor 
old  dog,  still,  every  fine  morning,  takes  a  sun- 
bath  on  the  terrace?  I  liked  to  see  him  throw 
himself  down  before  the  big  myrtle  with  a  sigh 
of  reposeful  content.  And  tell  me  if  the  cocks 
and  hens  flourish,  and  if  you  now  are  called 
upon  to  find  names  for  the  infants  of  the  poultry- 
yard.  Great  was  Enticknap's  embarrassment 
Avhen  Margaret  gave  her  own  name  and  Cyn- 
thia's to  two  of  the  chickens.  With  "Miss  Cyn- 
thie  the  cock"  and  "Miss  Margrot  the  pullet,"  he 
finally  solved  the  etiquette  difficulty. 

My  salutations  empressees  to  you  and  to  every- 
thing at  Tolcarne,  and  those  of  Trelawney  to  the 
birds — robin,  linnet,  thrush.  Much  does  he  wish, 
horrid  fellow,  that  it  were  for  him  to  devastate 
the  nests  this  spring.  Much  do  I  rejoice  that  it 
is  not.    Good-bye,  good-bye. 

Elizabeth. 


58 


VIII. 

Sir  Richard  Etchingham  to  Miss  Elizabeth 
Etchingham. 

My  dear  Elizabeth, — Laura  may  go  to 
Duzakh,  which  is  in  the  Persian  the  opposite  of 
Bihisht ;  and  if  you  don't  know  what  those  two 
places  are,  you  may  guess.  Seriously,  can  you 
go  on  living  with  her  much  longer?  There  is  a 
point  where  self-respect,  after  a  fair  trial,  sets 
limits  to  every  social  duty.  However,  Sir  Au- 
gustus's exit  is  assured,  and  I  shall  not  break 
my  heart  because  it  was  a  little  more  abrupt 
than  we  meant. 

For  once  your  penetration  was  at  fault  about 
Margaret.  Her  little  worry  had  nothing  to  do 
with  Jem  :  we  have  had  a  refusal  here  too,  but  of 
a  very  different  person.  Mr.  Weekes,  the  curate, 
who  began  his  relations  to  me  with  a  rather  ex- 
aggerated version  of  the  civility  due  from  a 
younger  man  to  a  considerably  older  one,  has 
become  more  and  more  obsequious  the  last  week 
or  two,  till  at  last  it  was  positively  oppressive. 
Margaret,  regarding  him  as  an  inoffensive  per- 
son to  whom  it  would  be  a  sin  to  refuse  charity, 
continued  to  instruct  him  in  cycling  along  with 
me.    Last  Thursday   morning  he   came   round 

59 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

when  I  happened  to  be  well  occupied  with  letters 
and  Enticknap  (I  do  remember  that  Friday  is 
outward  mail-day,  for  the  sake  of  keeping  up 
with  some  old  colleagues),  and  I  said  that  if  Mr. 
Weekes  and  Margaret  would  start  on  our  usual 
run — the  one  approximately  flat  piece  of  the 
Thursborough  road  near  us  which  you  once 
complained  of  as  our  one  dull  walk — I  would 
come  after  them  presently  and  overtake  or  meet 
them.  "Huzur,"  said  Margaret  (she  will  call  me 
Huzur,  though  I  have  explained  to  her  that  it  is 
quite  pointless),  "can't  you  really  come  with 
us?"  But  I  really  could  not  very  well,  and  saw 
no  need  for  it.  In  about  half  an  hour  I  stepped 
out  to  fetch  my  hired  machine  from  the  portion 
of  the  stable  which  Margaret  has  converted  into 
a  cycle-house,  when  Margaret  came  riding  in  at 
the  gate,  faster  than  usual,  and  almost  ran 
against  me,  with  Mr.  Weekes  panting  and  wob- 
bling after  her.  They  dismounted  and  took  their 
bicycles  in  (Mr.  Weekes's  lives  here  till  he  can 
find  storage  elsewhere — there  is  no  place  at  all 
in  his  lodging  in  the  village,  and  as  his  and  mine 
were  hired  from  the  same  shop  in  Thursborough 
at  the  same  time,  it  seemed  the  natural  thing), 
and  as  I  was  moving  in  the  same  direction  there 
came  out  in  Margaret's  most  practical  house- 
keeper's voice — the  one  she  uses  when  some- 
thing stupid  aggravates  her — "Do  stop  talking 
nonsense,  Mr.  Weekes,  and  don't  upset  my  ma- 
chine." Then  a  limp  black  figure,  dusty  as  to 
the  knees,  came  scrambling  past  me  with  a  hasty 

60 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

salute  most  unlike  Mr.  Weekes's  usual  cere- 
mony ;  and  when  he  was  well  out  of  the  gate, 
Margaret  emerged  and  half  drew,  half  drove  me 
into    the    study.     "What,"    said    I ;    "you    don't 

mean  to  tell  me  he  has ?"    She  looked  as  if 

she  did  not  quite  know  whether  to  laugh  or  to 
cry — you  know  I  become  imbecile  when  people 
cry — but  happily  the  laugh  turned  the  scale,  and, 
after  giving  a  little  choke  or  two,  she  collapsed 
on  a  stool  in  a  violent  fit  of  laughter.  "Yes,  in- 
deed," she  said,  when  she  could  find  words,  "and 
he's  been  proposing  all  the  time."  Apparently 
Mr.  Weekes  accepted  the  chance  as  a  provi- 
dential omen,  and  as  soon  as  they  were  fairly 
started  he  began  to  blurt  out  incoherent  com- 
pliments, in  which  the  virtues  of  Margaret, 
Much  Buckland,  and  myself  were  hopelessly 
tangled,  and  then  reeled  off  what  he  intended  to 
be  a  proposal  in  due  form,  with  a  full  exposition 
of  the  secular  and  spiritual  advantages  that 
would  accrue  to  both  parties,  and  to  the  people 
of  the  Bucklands,  from  Margaret  becoming  Mrs. 
Septimus  Weekes.  As  he  is  barely  capable  of 
riding  and  talking  at  the  same  time,  his  dis- 
course was  adorned  by  narrowly  averted  col- 
lisions with  the  Squares'  family  coach,  a  farmer's 
cart,  a  donkey,  a  wheelbarrow,  and  Margaret 
herself.  All  these  events  gave  Margaret  plenty 
to  do  in  looking  out  for  herself  and  ejaculating 
imperative  cautions,  so  she  could  only  get  out  a 
few  words  of  dissent.  When  he^  followed  her 
into  the  stable  he  essayed  to  go  down  on  one 

6i 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

knee,  but,  the  space  being  limited,  he  only 
achieved  stumbling  over  Margaret's  machine 
and  barking  his  shin  against  the  mud-guard. 
Net  result — Mr.  Weekes  must  find  quarters  for 
his  bicycle  somewhere  else  without  loss  of  time. 
By  good  luck  there  was  Jem's  coming — now 
come,  in  fact — and  I  wrote  a  little  note  explain- 
ing to  poor  Septimus  that  Jem  was  very  particu- 
lar about  having  plenty  of  room.  So  there  is 
another  exit,  and  I  have  escaped,  I  trust,  a  sol- 
emn letter  or  a  solemn  interview,  or  both.  And 
Margaret,  I  think,  now  feels  more  intimate  with 
her  half-known  parent  from  the  Indies.  She  had 
been  suspecting  the  catastrophe  for  some  days, 
but  looked,  as  I  should  have  looked,  for  some- 
thing much  more  formal  and  dignified.  She  is 
not  exactly  angry  with  the  man,  but  vexed  at  his 
folly.  Such  persons  do  seem  a  blot  on  the  rea- 
sonableness of  things. 

Now  concerning  the  arrival  of  Jem  and  Mr. 
Shipley,  which  also  has  had  unexpected  ele- 
ments. Arthur's  movements  are  known  to  you, 
as  he  did  his  duty  by  calling  on  you  before  he 
came  on  here  for  the  holidays,  and  you  have 
verified  for  yourself  his  healthy  state  of  indififer- 
cnce  to  the  problems  of  the  universe.  I  don't 
think  he  will  turn  out  the  sort  of  young  man 
who  considers  that  his  own  opinions  nnist  be  of 
serious  importance  to  God  Almighty.  Well, 
Jem  telegraphed  to  us  on  Tuesday  to  expect  him 
by  the  Thursborough  road,  and  the  three  of  us 
set  off  wheeling  after  lunch  on  the  chance  of  a 

6« 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

meeting.  About  four  miles  out  we  perceived,  as 
the  old-fashioned  first  chapter  used  to  say,  two 
riders  approaching  at  a  swift  and  steady  pace 
from  the  cathedral  town.  Meanwhile  we  had 
been  discussing  the  unknown  Mr.  Shipley.  My 
guess  was  a  dry,  precise  little  man.  jMargaret's 
was  a  tall,  thin,  anaemic  man,  with  a  stoop  and 
blinking  eyes.  "Oh !  no,"  said  Arthur,  "that's 
not  the  sort.  I  know  those  awfully  clever  history 
chaps ;  we  had  one  to  give  a  lecture  to  the 
School  Society  this  half.  He  was  red  and 
smooth,  and  just  like  a  Rugby  football,  and 
looked  as  if  he  couldn't  stand  up  by  himself.  He 
talked  of  nothing  but  common  fields  and  grass- 
farming  and  mangold-wurzels ;  that's  what  they 
make  us  learn  for  history  now."  "Look,"  said 
Margaret;  "isn't  that  Jem?"  "Somebody  with 
him,  then,"  said  Arthur.  A  few  minutes  showed 
that  it  certainly  was  Jem,  and  with  him  a  proper 
enough  man  of  no  remarkable  dimensions  any 
way  in  excess  or  defect,  and  of  decidedly  cheer- 
ful aspect,  old  enough  to  wear  a  full  beard  in  de- 
fiance of  the  modern  fashion  of  youth — that  is, 
enormously  old  to  Arthur's  eyes,  and  in  the  nov- 
elist's "prime  of  life"  to  mine.  "Let  me  intro- 
duce Mr.  Shipley,"  said  Jem ;  "We  met  at  Ox- 
bridge some  time  since,  and  we  have  fallen  in  on 
the  road."  Not  a  bit  like  any  of  our  guesses. 
Things  very  seldom  are,  so  far  as  I  know,  and 
people  never.  So  we  rode  back  to  the  Vicarage 
quite  an  imposing  procession ;  and  if  Jem 
thought  the  pace  funereal,  he  did  not  say  so. 

63 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

To  the  Vicarage,  because  Mr.  Shipley  did  not 
know  the  way;  and  Mr.  Follett,  who  was  walk- 
ing in  the  garden,  had  lis  all  in  to  tea.  We  took 
the  back  way  by  reason  of  our  machines,  and 
thereby  were  surprised.  For  who  should  be  sit- 
ting with  Mrs.  Follett  but  poor  Weekes !  She 
is  a  motherly,  comfortable  person  (all  the  more 
so  to  the  world  from  having  no  children  of  her 
own),  and  he  doubtless  had  come  for  consola- 
tion. Margaret  made  herself  a  rampart  of  Jem 
and  me.  Mrs.  Follett  asked  if  there  was  any 
more  talk  of  war  in  London,  but  Jem,  not  hav- 
ing been  in  London  for  some  days,  disclaimed 
knowledge,  and  Mr.  Shipley  said  there  was  noth- 
ing certain.  "Is  it  not  shocking.  Mrs.  Follett," 
said  Mr.  Weekes,  ''that  war  should  still  be  possi- 
ble? My  friend  Dr.  Woggles,  of  the  Universal 
Arbitration  League,  writes  to  me  in  a  truly 
painful  state  of  anxiety."  "I  am  not  sure  that 
the  Vicar  agrees  with  you,"  said  Mrs.  Follett. 

"But  on  all  Christian  principles "  he  replied, 

and, catching  sight  of  Margaret, gasped  and  came 
to  a  dead  stop.  "But,"  said  Mr.  Follett,  who,  of 
course,  knew  nothing  of  our  late  episode,  "a 
clerk  in  orders  is  hardly  free  to  deny  that  Chris- 
tian men  may  sometimes  lawfully  bear  arms.  Dr. 
Woggles  is  probably  not  bound  by  the  Articles. 
And  there  are  some  other  archaic  writings  which 
we  are  bound  at  least  not  to  dismiss  without  con- 
sideration. Sir  Richard,  will  you  kindly  take 
down  that  Vulgate  which  is  just  behind  your 
head  on  the  shelf?    Thank  you.    And  you,  Miss 

64 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Margaret,  will  you  read  this  verse?  You  learnt 
Latin  at  your  High  School,  doubtless  with  the 
true  Italian  vowels — one  thing  at  least  that  girls 
are  taught  better  than  boys."  "Please,  Mr. 
A'lcar,  I  don't  know  Latin,"  said  Margaret. 
"Enough  to  read  a  text  in  the  Vulgate,"  said 
Mr.  Follett,  "and  our  barbarous  English  Latin 
is  not  what  the  Vulgate  deserves."  "A  good 
judgment."  said  Mr.  Shipley.  "It  will  save  you 
talking,"  I  whispered  to  Margaret.  So  she  took 
the  book  from  the  Vicar,  and  with  a  ring  in  her 
voice  quite  different  from  the  housekeeper  tone, 
and  (it  seemed  to  my  ears,  which  have  heard  a 
good  few  tongues  between  Gibraltar  and  Bom- 
bay) a  mighty  pretty  Italian  accent,  she  read 
out: — 

"Accingcrc  gladio  tito  super  fcuiur  tuuni,  potcn- 
tissimc.  Specie  tua  et  pulchritudine  tua  inteiide, 
prospere  procede  et  regna,  propter  veritaem  et  man- 
sitetiidincjn  et  iustitiam:  et  dedncet  te  mirabiliter 
dextcra  tua." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Mr.  Shipley,  "those  last 
words  are  wrongly  translated ;  but  in  themselves 
I  like  them  better  than  the  'terrible  things'  of  the 
English  version."  "That  was  why  I  chose  the 
Latin,"  said  Mr.  Follett.  Mr.  Weekes  had  van- 
ished. "Well,"  said  I,  not  having  attended  much 
to  Western  public  affairs  for  some  years,  and 
having  no  clear  or  decided  notions  about  the 
Cuban  question,  "and  who  is  your  mighty  man 
that  is  to  gird  himself  with  his  sword  upon  his 
thigh?"     "The  President  of  the  United  States," 

65 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

said  Mr.  Follett.  "£/  dcducat  ipsum  mirabilitcr 
dextcra  sua,"  added  Mr.  Shipley.  "He's  all 
right,"  said  Jem, 

So  there  you  have  incidentally  the  answer  to 
your  question  about  rumours  of  war.  We  are  to 
dine  at  the  Vicarage  to-morrow.  Merlin,  who' 
you  remember  came  from  Jem's  old  home,  is 
quite  spry  at  seeing  him  again.  Arthur,  who 
patronises  us  all  except  Jem  in  cycling,  took  out 
the  family  and  Mr.  Shipley  for  a  ride  to-day,  and 
on  the  return  was  cautioning  us  about  the  in- 
cline down  to  the  house,  when  the  learned  man, 
remarking  that  the  slight  breeze  against  us  was 
an  excellent  substitute  for  the  brake,  put  up  his 
feet,  and,  drawing  ahead  of  Arthur  by  the  ad- 
vantage of  a  man's  weight  over  a  boy's,  sailed 
in  neatly  through  the  one  open  leaf  of  the  gate 
with  just  enough  way  on  to  dismount  easily. 
Whereupon  Arthur  has  confided  to  Margaret 
and  me  that  he  considers  Shipley  an  old  brick, 
and  doesn't  believe  he  can  be  an  historian  at  all. 

I  am  asking  Charles  and  Minnie  to  come  here 
for  the  short  Whitsuntide  vacation.  You  have 
never  told  me  your  opinion  about  the  binding  of 
Tod's  "Rajasthan" — and  lots  of  other  things.  I 
must  contrive  to  see  you  soon,  though  they  have 
given  me  an  infinite  deal  of  nothing  to  do  as 
Chairman  of  the  Parish  Council,  and  Wessex 
farmers  are  less  manageable  than  Rajput  princes, 
and  trains  at  lUickland  Road  Station  are  few  and 
evil.  The  only  fast  thing  one  sees  there  is  the 
Midland  express  running  through  to  the  north, 

66 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

which  is  obviously  not  of  much  use  to  a  man 
who  wants  to  go  to  London.  It  is  said  that  it 
once  sHpped  a  coach  for  a  director,  which  made 
a  nine  days'  wonder  for  all  Buckland  folk.  Think 
of  a  time  to  suit  you,  and  I  will  make  it  out 
somehow.  No  more  at  present  from 
Your  loving  Brother, 

Richard  Etchingham. 


67 


IX. 

From  Miss  Elizabeth  Efchingham,  83  Hans  Place, 
to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Tolcanic. 

Dear,  dearest  Creature, — Poor  Margaret 
— poorer  Mr.  Weekes.  But  what  a  goose  the 
poorer  man  must  be  to  have  supposed  himself 
capable  of  converting  Margaret  into  Mrs.  Sep- 
timus Weekes.  There  is  a  certain  ingenousness 
about  him  that  I  always  rather  liked,  and  a 
meekness  not  in  keeping  with  the  hardihood  of 
his  last  move.  Do  you  know,  I  wonder,  the  tale 
of  his  first  appearance  in  the  Tolcarne  pulpit  one 
Sunday  afternoon,  as  told  by  Blake? — "Mr. 
Weekes,  M'm,  up  he  went,  and  he  looked  round 
and  round  all  in  a  flutter,  and  then  says  he,  'My 
thoughts  have  gone  from  me.  Will  you  excuse 
me?'  and  down  he  ran,  scared  as  a  hen  by  a 
hawk."  I  don't  feel  sure  that  valour  was  absent 
from  this  explanation,  though  terror  certainly 
takes  people  differently  —  making  some  speak 
when  conscious  that  thought  has  left  them. 

You  will  be  welcome  wherever  you  appear ; 
and  as  to  the  time,  the  sooner  the  better.  "Ask 
the  Rajah  if  he  isn't  coming  up  for  the  May 
Meetings  or  the  Empire  P.allet,"  was  Harry's 
last  injunction  before  departing  this  life  on  his 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

way  north,  armed  with  much  fishing-tackle. 
Voire  convert  est  mis,  and  we  all  consider  you  to 
be  due. 

I  really  fear  that  my  memory  is  failing  me,  and 
senile  decay  is  setting  in,  when  I  think  how  of- 
ten I  have  meant  but  failed  to  answer  your  ques- 
tion as  to  the  binding  of  Tod's  "Rajasthan." 
Were  the  book  mine,  and  did  I  love  it,  I  would 
give  it  brown  calf — good,  solid,  sober,  russet 
calf.  For  all  but  butterfly  books,  I  think  I  pre- 
fer brown  calf  to  other  bindings.  It  has  the  de- 
mure look,  the  durable  look,  and,  if  fittingly 
treated,  the  look  of  quality. 

About  what  you  ask  as  to  living  on  with 
Laura,  well,  yes ;  without  a  violent  asserting  of 
myself,  I  don't  see  any  way  out  of  it  at  present. 
She  means  well,  as  tiresome  people  according  to 
your  doctrine  are  apt  to  do,  and  in  her  tiresome- 
ness we  see  the  defects  of  her  good  qualities.  She 
is  keen  for  affection,  and  she  has  always  meant 
to  "do  her  duty,"  and  I  really  believe  that  it 
would  distress  and  astonish  her  beyond  measure 
to  find  that  I  wish  to  cut  myself  free.  And  then 
the  opinion  of  her  neighbours  assumes  mam- 
moth dimensions  in  her  eyes.  "What  people 
would  think" ;  "What  people  would  say,"  if  I 
went  my  own  way — we  should  see  her  with 
straws  in  her  smooth  hair.  (Laura  is  precisely 
like  a  picture  by  Sant  that  I  came  across  the 
other  day.)  I  am  capable,  I  need  not  tell  you,  of 
being  odiously  disagreeable  momentarily  when 
my  temper  is  touched,  but  I  am  not  capable  of 

69 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

sustained  effort  in  the  direction  of  my  own  bene- 
fit. I  must  therefore,  I  suppose,  suffer  for  my 
ineptitude,  which,  by  the  way,  rather  reminds 
me  of  the  Burmese  proverb :  "The  ass,  though 
fatigued,  carries  his  burden." 

I  am  glad  that  Margaret's  reading  from  the 
Vulgate  pleased  you.  Her  voice  is  a  valuable 
possession.  Had  I  been  present  I  would  possi- 
bly have  asked  that  the  reading  might  be  con- 
tinued over  the  page — "Deus  noster  refugium 
et  virtus."  "Auferens  bella  usque  ad  finem 
terrae." 

Do  you  remember  the  "antique  song"  that  our 
mother  used  to  sing? 

"Oh,  if  I  were  Queen  of  France,  or  still  better.  Pope 

of  Rome, 
I    would   have   no    fighting   men    abroad,    no    weeping 

maids  at  home; 
All  the  world  might  be  at  peace,  or  if  kings  must  show 

their  might, 
Then  let  those  who  make  the  quarrels  be  the  only  ones 

to  fight." 

But  you  need  not  brand  me  as  a  Wogglesite,  for 
the  way  to  peace,  I  admit,  is  often  through  war. 
I  regret  to  inform  you  that  Sir  Augustus 
Pampesford,  after  a  week's  absence,  has  again 
appeared  upon  the  scene.  He,  however,  now 
asks  pointedly  for  Laura,  and  pretty  well  ignores 
me.  Laura,  who  always  had  a  great  respect  for 
anything  in  the  shape  of  a  man.  tliinks  he  is  "a 
very  pincaj^plc  of  politeness,"  and  I  dare  say  that 
he  is  an  agreeable  contrast  to  her  crowd  of  an- 

70 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

cient  women.  Aunt  Jane  comes  to  visit  us 
rather  often,  and  she  and  Laura  have  strvick  up 
an  intimacy.  She  sits  for  a  long  while  and  puts 
many  family  questions.  "And  what  news  have 
you  of  Richard?"  "Do  you  hear  often  from 
Margaret?"  "Is  Charles  quite  well?"  "How 
is  Harry?"  "What  news  has  Richard  of 
Arthur?"  and  so  on,  and  so  on;  and  this  just 
suits  Laura.  There  is  no  fatigue  nor  mental  ex- 
ertion about  it,  and  while  it  lasts  they  both  look 
sleepy  but  comfortable.  Laura  is  really  kind  to 
Aunt  Jane,  and  Aunt  Jane  says  truly  enough 
that  Laura  has  nothing  in  common  with  the  ob- 
jectionable women — if  one  can  call  them  women 
— who  unsex  themselves,  and  who,  she  hears, 

are   really,  really You    know   Aunt   Jane. 

But  I  like  to  hear  Aunt  Jane  tell  of  the  long  past 
days  at  Tolcarne — of  our  grandparents  and  their 
punctilious  ceremony,  and  of  the  formal  polite- 
ness, which  ruffled  temper  but  increased.  When 
the  entente  was  not  perfectly  cordial,  the  Eliza 
and  Nicholas  became  "Your  Ladyship"  and  "Sir 
Nicholas."  Our  grandfather  was  something  of 
a  martinet,  and  our  -grandmother  did  not  forget 
her  beauty  and  heiressdom,  and  so  the  ceremo- 
nious mode  of  address  was  from  time  to  time  in 
requisition. 

Later. — A  letter  "to  hand"  from  Harry.  He 
seems  happy.  The  river — oh,  unique  river — is 
in  good  condition,  and  he  has  killed  and  is  send- 
ing south  a  fish.    He  begs  to  inform  me  that  his 

71 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

"waders,  when  hung  upon  a  hedge  to  dry,  were 
the  subject  of  much  perplexed  discussion  by 
some  French  tourists  t'other  day.  Mystery  fin- 
ally solved  to  the  satisfaction  of  all  parties. 
Waders  were  undoubtedly  worn  'for  the  ascent 
of  Ben  Nevis.'  " 

So  efifectually  mended  is  Harry's  heart — if  by 
Ada  Llanclly  ever  broken — that  I  should  not  be 
surprised  if — can  you  guess?  No?  Well,  an- 
swer me  this :  Is  it  all  in  the  day's  work  that  our 
good  brother  should  spend  hours  in  the  attic 
box-room  sweeping  the  leads  and  roofs  through 
a  field-glass,  when  Trelawney,  worshipped  by 
Cynthia,  has  wandered  far?  I,  too,  worship  Tre- 
lawney ;  but  would  Harry  throw  over  anybody, 
everybody,  anything,  everything,  rather  than 
Trelawney  should  vanish  into  space,  were  his 
sister's  heart  alone  lacerated  by  the  thought  of 
Trelawney 's  disappearance?  And  why,  please, 
did  he  nearly  put  out  his  sister's  eye  with  the  rib 
of  her  best  umbrella,  snatching  the  umbrella 
from  her  without  so  much  as  a  "by  your  leave" 
lest  Cynthia's  feathers  should  sufifer?  Are  not 
my  eyes  of  more  value  than  many  feathers,  ex- 
cept in  the  opinion  of  one  under  the  spell  of  the 
wearer  of  the  feathers?  And  does  it  not  require 
some  passion  equal  to  that  of  love  to  banish, 
when  rain  falls,  all  regard  for  the  welfare  of  his 
own  hat  from  a  man's  remembrance — of  his  own 
nc7v  hat,  not  of  the  hat  that  had  been  sat  upon 
by  the  refrigerator?  Dear  Harry.  His  hat  was 
new.  and  he  ruined  it  yesterday,  which  surprised 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

me  almost  more  than  did  the  careless  grace  with 
which  he  nearly  put  out  my  eye.  But  even  ii 
Cynthia  is  disposed  to  like  him,  I  do  hope  that 
he  will  be  content  to  "mark  time"  for  a  while. 
For  Cynthia  is  very  young,  and  I  would  not 
have  Colonel  Leagrave  written  to  just  yet  to  say 
that  his  child  is  engaged  to  our  brother.  He 
might  consider  that  an  unfair  advantage  had 
been  taken  of  the  living-together  circumstances. 
But  this  would  never  occur  to  simple-minded 
Harry.    What  do  you  think? 

Cynthia  is  an  attractive  thing.  Pretty  as  a 
Cosway  miniature,  and  pretty  to  live  with : 
which  beauty  is  not  always.  And  she  seems  to 
be  an  afifectionate,  lovable  little  soul ;  not  pos- 
sessed, perhaps,  of  Margaret's  strength,  but  the 
strength  may  be  there,  dormant,  for  all  I  know. 
And  then  she  has  that  invaluable  old-fashioned 
possession — a  conscience.  The  Falies  would  be 
kiiid  to  Tiarry  did  they  give  him  Cynthia  as  his 
wife,  nor  would  they,  in  my  humble  opinion,  do 
Cynthia  the  while  an  ill  turn,  for  men,  as  kind, 
as  upright,  as  crystally  honest  as  Harry  are  not 
plentiful  as  blackberries  on  hedges. 

Laura  begins  to  think  that  it  would  suit  her 
to  be  braced,  and  the  last  notion  is  that  she  and 
I  should  go  somewhere  for  bracing  benefit  in 
June.  Mrs.  Carstairs  tells  her  that  the  air  of 
Scotland  would  serve  the  purpose,  and  she  in- 
tends to  consult  Harry  on  this  point  when  he 
returns.  I  cannot  quite  imagine  Laura  upon 
the  hill — can  you?    It  would  be  from  inn  to  Inn 

73 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

we  should  go,  as,  if  our  friends  were  disposed 
to  entertain  us,  tlieir  tea  would  be  too  strong 
for  our  digestions,  or  their  climates  too  enervat- 
ing for  our  constitutions,  I  suppose. 

It  is,  alas,  Laura's  intention  to  give  a  lamenta- 
bly large  dinner-party  in  your  honour  when  you 
come  to  London.  Poor,  poor  Dickory ;  try  and 
bear  the  trial  well.  This  is  just  a  case  of  Laura's 
compassing  the  very  thing  detested,  with  the 
idea  of  pleasing.  I  repeatedly  implore  her  never 
to  do  to  others  as  she  would  be  done  by,  but  my 
prayers  are  unheeded.  She  welcomed  a  dinner 
invitation,  even  when  at  Tolcarne,  and  drove 
with  alacrity,  whenever  the  neighbours  gave  her 
the  chance,  through  darkness  to  depression. 

Thank  Margaret  for  her  nosegays.  The  great 
boughs  of  pear-blossom  and  the  forget-me-nots 
have  dressed  us  out  elegantly  in  white  and  blue ; 
and  the  violets,  if  the  Jinnestan  romance  tells 
truly,  should  ward  off  the  cruel  and  evil  spirits 
"whose  malignant  nature  is  intolerant  of  per- 
fume." How  is  the  flower-perfumed  world  at 
Tolcarne?  To-day,  Good  Friday,  potato  plant- 
ing, according  to  Devon  tradition  and  supersti- 
tion, is  the  rule  in  every  cottage  garden ;  and  in 
yours  too,  probably,  for  Enticknap  is  a  stickler 
for  old  custom  and  luck-lore.  Bid  him  trans- 
plant some  parsley,  and  see  if  your  will  or  his 
superstition  prevails.  He  said  to  me  once,  with 
a  note  of  interrogation  in  his  voice,  that  he  had 
"heard  say"  the  whooping  cough  was  never 
taken  by  a  child  who  had  ridden  upon  a  bear. 

74 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

In  reference  to  this,  Air.  Follett,  I  remember, 
told  me  that  when  bear-baiting  was  in  fashion, 
the  bear-owner's  profits  were  largely  augmented 
by  money  received  from  parents  whose  children, 
for  their  health's  good,  had  ridden  the  bear. 

Now  good-bye.  Take  care  of  yourself,  and 
don't  forget  to  outlive  me.  I  enclose  a  letter 
from  Cynthia,  and  rest 

Your  loving  sister, 

Elizabeth. 

[Enclosure.] 

Vivian-End. 

My  dear  Miss  Etchingham, — Thank  you 
very  much  for  sending  my  satin  shoes.  I  do  not 
know  how  I  would  have  danced  to-night  with- 
out them. 

You  would  like  the  woods  here ;  they  are  so 
full  of  oxlips  and  wild  hyancinths  and  wood- 
anemones.  There  was  a  dinner-party  on  Mon- 
day evening.  Mr.  Biggleswade  and  another 
clergyman  and  his  wife  and  some  other  neigh- 
bours came.  Mr.  Biggleswade  asked  me,  if  I 
had  the  opportunity,  to  explain  to  Mrs.  Vivian 
that  he  was  perfectly  willing  to  meet  London 
people ;  that  he  would  prefer  it  to  being  invited  ■ 
to  dine  with  the  aborigines,  with  whom,  he  says, 
he  has  absolutely  nothing  in  common;  but  that 
Mrs.  Vivian  did  not  seem  to  understand  that  it 
is  so.  But  I  think  that  Mrs.  Vivian  understands 
it  quite  well.  Stephen  thinks  that  she  does,  and 
Stephen  thinks  she  makes  a  point  of  introduc- 

75 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

ing  Mr.  Biggleswade  to  people  as  "our  vicar" 
because  it  amuses  her  to  irritate  him.  Stephen 
thinks,  too,  that  she  speaks  to  Mr.  Biggleswade 
about  the  Guardian  for  the  sake  of  hearing  him 
say  stiffly  that  he  does  not  seek  the  paper.  He 
has  not  talked  to  me  much  since  Lady  Honora 
and  Lady  Wilfrida  Home-Lennox  came.  I  do 
not  think  they  Hke  him,  but  they  say  his  poems 
are  supposed  to  be  very  clever  and  Elizabethan, 
and  he  is  now  going  to  write  a  play.  I  hope  my 
darling  Trelawney  is  well,  and  that  he  has  not 
been  brought  back  in  disgrace  from  anybody's 
dust-bin  again.  (If  he  strays  away,  does  Turn- 
bull  look  for  him  now  that  Major  Etchingham 
is  not  there  ?)  I  hope  also  that  Blare  and  Atholl 
are  well,  and  that  Blake  is  not  turning  them 
back  with  two  much  hemp-seed.  Mr.  Biggles- 
wade lets  his  gardener  shoot  bullfinches, 
Blanche  Vivian  says,  because  he  thinks  they  cat 
his  orchard  buds.  I  think  this  is  very  horrid.  I 
shall  not  care  for  his  pretty  verses  about  Gly- 
cera's  bullfinch  any  more.  I  hope  that  Major 
Etchingham  is  having  fine  weather  in  Scotland. 
He  sent  a  great  salmon,  that  arrived  last  night. 
I  will  bring  you  some  oxlips ;  and  please  tell 
Aunt  Laura  I  do  not  want  the  goloshes.  The 
ground  is  quite  dry. 

With  best  love,  your  very  afifcctionate 

Cynthia. 


76 


X. 


Sir  Richard  Etchinghani  to  Miss  Elisabeth 
Etchingham. 

My  dear  Elizabeth, — Harry's  attentions  to 
Trelawney,  which  you  report  with  so  much  in- 
terest, afford  a  curious  example  of  what  the 
modern  naturahst  calls  "throwing  back."  Pur- 
suit of  strayed  animals  was  amongst  the  earliest 
functions  of  Intelligence  Departments.  In  fact, 
there  is  a  stage  of  society,  still  possible  to  ob- 
serve in  parts  of  India,  where  the  chief  occupa- 
tion is  lifting  your  neighbours'  cattle,  diversified 
by  expeditions  for  tracking,  and  if  possible  re- 
covering, the  cattle  which  he  has  lifted  from  you. 
When  the  cattle-lifter  comes,  by  the  progress  of 
other  industries,  to  be  in  a  distinct  minority, 
people  begin  to  call  him  a  thief,  and  to  make 
rules  for  the  game  of  hunting  him,  as  to  which 
he  is  not  consulted.  Mr.  Shipley  tells  me  this  is 
one  of  the  few  topics  on  which  Anglo-Saxon  law 
was  copious.  And,  substituting  the  compara- 
tively modern  horse  for  the  archaic  herds  of 
kine,  we  may  find  similar  developments  in  the 
history  of  California  and  of  the  Australian  col- 
onies. Now  it  is  the  law  of  all  forms  of  hunt- 
ing that  ultimately  they  are  carried  on  with  re- 

77 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

gard  to  the  sport  as  an  end  in  itself,  and  the 
original  purpose  of  acquiring  food,  destroying 
dangerous  or  noxious  animals,  recovering  valu- 
able property,  or  whatever  else  it  may  have  been, 
falls  into  the  background,  and,  after  serving  for 
a  while  as  an  excuse,  finally  disappears.  This 
may  be  well  seen  in  Somerville's  poem  on  the 
Chase,  where  fox-hunting  is  just  beginning  to 
take  rank  as  a  sport  for  gentlemen,  and  the 
hunters  are  still  represented  as  the  farmer's  allies 
and  protectors,  who  deliver  his  hen-roosts  from 
Reynard's  depredations.  Such  was  the  transi- 
tion towards  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. Now  the  sport  of  tracking  stolen  oxen  is 
not  easily  practised  in  modern  England,  least  of 
all  in  cities;  but  by  the  legitimate  substitution 
of  the  cat,  a  smaller  and  swifter  animal,  and  fol- 
lowing the  trail  across  housetops,  where  the 
signs  of  passage  are  less  obvious  than  on  a  road, 
the  material  conditions  are  reconciled  with  mod- 
ern civilization,  and  the  discipline  of  intelligence, 
with  the  concomitant  satisfaction  of  the  sport- 
ing instinct,  is  not  only  preserved  but  improved. 
There  is  a  piece  of  evolutionary  argument  for 
you.  I  have  heard  young  civilians  just  come 
out  with  their  heads  full  of  Herbert  Spencer  de- 
liver themselves  of  less  plausible  ones  in  all  seri- 
ousness— and  seen  them  do  right  good  men's 
work  a  few  years  later,  when  they  had  found  out 
that  the  gods  of  Asia  don't  rule  their  world  ac- 
cording to  Western  books.  But  a  quite  different 
alternative     hypothesis     occurs     to     me     about 

78 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Harry's  conduct :  perhaps  our  War  OfBce  wants 
to  go  one  better  than  the  Germans,  and  train 
cats  to  act  as  orderhes.  In  any  case,  it  is  evi- 
dent that  he  is  carrying  out  some  kind  of  experi- 
ment under  secret  instructions ;  so  be  careful 
how  you  talk  of  it.  As  for  the  sunshade  and 
feathers  incident,  I  give  it  up,  having  never  had 
anything  like  it  in  my  official  experience.  My 
good  old  friend  Colonel  Leagrave  is  too  far  off 
to  consult  on  the  point.  Cynthia  is  a  pretty 
name,  but  Cynthia  Etchingham  would  make  a 
rather  awkward  hiatus.  Has  she  no  second 
name  that  would  go  between? 

You  may  remember  that  in  one  of  the  less  dull 
pages  of  Eckermann  Goethe  is  reported  to  have 
said  to  some  one  who  urgently  asked  for  his  ad- 
vice, "I  shall  be  happy  to  give  you  as  much  as 
you  please  on  one  condition."  "And  what  is 
that?"  said  the  young  man,  eager  to  pay  any 
price  for  Goethe's  wisdom.  "That  you  do  not 
take  it."  And  so  it  falls  out  as  to  the  binding 
of  Tod's  "Rajasthan,"  and  your  advice  to  put  it 
in  brown  calf.  In  Elizabethan  and  Jacobean 
bookland,  my  dear  sister,  I  do  homage  to  only 
one  Queen  Elizabeth,  and  she  is  alive.  Brown 
calf  is  good  for  your  Fullers  and  Burtons,  and 
ail  the  better  if  it  is  the  old  binding;  indeed, 
modern  calf  binding,  when  it  is  not  the  very  best, 
has  a  kind  of  shiny  smugness  about  it  which  I 
detest.  Do  you  remember  those  old  school  prize- 
books,  the  remaining  stock  of  travels  and  anti- 
quities bought  cheap  and  dressed  out  in  tawdry 

79 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

gilt  calf  with  a  greasy  surface,  and  the  hideous 
so-called  ecclesiastical  binding  with  thick  ribs  on 
the  back  ?  However,  I  cannot  see  Colonel  Tod  in 
any  sort  of  calf  at  all.  Those  dare-devil  Rajputs, 
as  splendid  and  as  impracticable  as  any  heroes  of 
European  chivalry,  who,  when  all  was  lost,  would 
put  on  saffron  garments  and  perish  in  a  last  des- 
perate sortie,  will  not  be  constrained  to  your 
sober  Anglican  livery.  The  Five  Colours  of 
Rajasthan,  on  the  other  hand  (you  have  never 
ridden  on  an  elephant  with  his  trunk  painted  in 
them !),  are  both  too  many  and  too  gaudy  to  put 
on  the  outside  of  a  book.  On  the  whole,  since 
we  live  in  a  clean  air  here,  I  think  I  shall  fall 
back  on  white  vellum,  with  a  sparing  use  of  some 
little  Oriental  or  quasi-Oriental  decoration.  Jem 
has  a  pet  binder  at  Oxbridge  whom  he  swears 
by,  and  is  sure  I  could  get  it  well  done  there. 

We  had  a  pleasant  little  dinner-party  at  the 
Vicarage  last  week :  just  our  two  housefuls,  and, 
if  you  please,  Mrs.  Tallis,  and  a  niece  who  is 
staying  with  her,  to  redress  the  balance  of  the 
sexes.  The  old  lady  is  really  more  active  than 
she  will  admit  to  most  people ;  she  is  cunning 
in  getting  off  duty  visits.  I  wish  I  could  learn 
the  trick  of  her.  After  dinner  I  told  ]Mr.  Shipley 
how  the  Vicar  and  I  began  to  fraternize  over  the 
curse  of  Ernulphus.  But  Shipley  spoke  of  that 
immortal  document  with  some  levity,  saying  that 
though  it  contains  passages  of  great  merit,  it  is 
a  late  and  diffuse  foninila  not  of  the  best  period ; 
so  that  Mr.  Follett  and  T  began  to  doubt  if  such 

80 


The  Etchingham  Lett/,fs 

sentiments  were  compatible  with  a  sound  Shan- 
dean  faith;  which,  as  we  had  aheady  made  up 
our  minds  that  the  suspected  heretic  was  a  good 
fellow,  would  have  been  an  occasion  of  sadness. 
But  he  proceeded  to  clear  himself.  "Don't  sup- 
pose," he  said,  "that  I  would  in  any  way  detract 
from  Sterne's  merit  in  finding  and  using  the 
curse.  He  was  a  royal  thief,  and  stole  the  best 
thing  he  could  find,  and  no  man  of  letters,  with 
the  best  intentions,  can  steal  more.  It  was  no 
fault  of  Sterne's  that  nearly  a  century  was  to 
pass  before  we  had  the  'Codex  Diplomaticus'  in 
print."  (I  had  not  the  least  notion  at  the  moment 
what  the  "Codex  Diplomaticus"  might  be,  and, 
indeed,  I  had  rather  assumed  that  the  curse  of 
Ernulphus  itself  was  largely  improved,  if  not 
wholly  invented,  by  Mr.  Sterne.  I  am  beginning 
to  know  a  little  more  now.)  "I  have  had  to  look 
at  Anglo-Saxon  charters,  though  not  often,"  an- 
swered Mr.  Follett,  "and  I  have  noticed  those 
clauses,  which  I  suppose  you  refer  to,  denouncing 
various  penalties  in  the  world  to  come  upon  any 
one  who  may  attempt  to  interfere  with  the  pious 
king's  gift ;  but  they  seemed  to  me  fragmentary 
and  fantastic  work."  "Only  you  should  consider 
the  variety,"  said  Mr.  Shipley.  "You  may  have 
your  portion  with  the  traitor  Judas,  which  is  per- 
haps the  commonest  form ;  you  may  be  swal- 
lowed up  with  Dathan  and  Abiram ;  your  soul 
may  be  hooked  out  of  your  body  with  devils' 
claws  to  be  boiled  in  Satan's  cauldron  world 
without  end ;  you  may  be  devoured  by  the  Sala- 

8i 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

mandcr ;  you  may  be  smitten  in  sunder  with  the 
falchion  of  Erebus;  or,  contrariwise,  you  may 
be  dehvered  over  to  the  maHce  of  the  Pennine 
demons,  that  they  may  plague  you  with  the  iciest 
blasts  of  the  Alps."  Here  it  seemed  to  me,  though 
knowing  nothing  of  ancient  European  charters, 
that  I  had  one  card  useful  for  this  game,  so  I 
mentioned  that  Colonel  Tod  had  translated  a 
Rajput  grant,  though  not  a  very  old  one,  con- 
taining a  clause  of  this  nature  which  might  pos- 
sibly compete  with  most  Western  productions. 
"I  have  heard,"  said  Shipley,  "that  the  Eastern 
vernaculars  arc  unsurpassed  in  terms  of  vitupera- 
tion." "Certainly,"  said  I,  "and  the  most  ele- 
mentary of  them  will  not  bear  translation  in  re- 
spectable company ;  but  that  is  not  exactly  my 
point."  "Yes,"  said  he,  "I  suppose  you  mean 
some  precise  form  of  spiritual  condemnation." 
"Well,"  I  continued,  "what  do  you  say  to  being 
a  caterpillar  in  hell  for  sixty  thousand  years?" 
After  a  moment's  reflection,  Shipley  admitted 
that  for  compendiousness  and  comprehensiveness 
he  could  not  beat  that  out  of  the  whole  of  Kem- 
ble's  "Codex  Diplomaticus,"  or  any  other  Eu- 
ropean collection.  Then  he  began  questioning 
me  about  the  Rajputs'  charters,  and  wanted  to 
know  many  more  things  than  I  could  tell  him 
without  book  ;  so  we  settled  that  he  should  come 
over  and  inspect  them  in  Tod  for  himself.  Mean- 
while he  had  found,  as  he  says  one  always  does 
find,  that  the  Thursborough  documents  wanted 
much  more  looking  into  than  he  had  been  told, 

82 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

and  he  was  somewhat  easily  persuaded  by  Mr. 
FoUett  to  stay  on  a  few  days  more  instead  oi 
rushing  back  before  Easter  Day.  Mrs.  TalHs 
was  in  a  most  festive  mood,  and  we  made  an 
appointment  for  a  view  of  those  boundary  pieces 
of  land. 

Somehow  we  were  all  a  good  deal  occupied  the 
next  few  days,  the  parson  with  his  Good  Friday 
and  Easter  duties,  Shipley  with  his  copies  and 
notes  of  documents,  so  that  he  could  only  join 
the  young  people  in  short  rides  or  potter  with 
this  ancient  squire,  and  the  said  ancient  squire 
in  the  still  continuing  process  of  putting  things 
to  rights,  or  what  the  father  of  didactic  poetry 
called  "Works"  (not  Weeks,  as  I  have  seen  it 
misprinted)  "and  Days."  Talking  of  the  garden, 
I  cannot  get  any  good  word  for  the  bullfinches 
from  Enticknap.  He  sticks  to  it  that  they  are  a 
downright  mischievous  lot,  and  he  has  seen  a 
"proper  rendyvoo"  of  them  eating  the  buds  zo 
vast  as  they  could.  As  to  sparrows,  I  am  inex- 
orable myself:  they  behave  like  land  pirates  of 
the  worst  kind,  as  I  remember  from  old  days  at 
home.  Turning  the  martins  out  of  their  nests  is 
a  favourite  sparrow's  trick. 

On  Monday,  however,  being  a  welcome  fine 
day,  parson  and  antiquary  came  in  together  and 
called  for  a  sight  of  Tod ;  I  desired  Mr.  Follett's 
mind  about  the  outside  of  him  too.  We  ad- 
journed to  the  garden,  book  and  all,  for  the 
Vicar  is  a  great  lover  of  sun,  and  calls  himself  an 
old  wall-fruit.    "Mr.  Shipley,"  said  Arthur,  after 

83 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

due  salutation,  "I  suppose  it  comes  quite  easy  to 
you  to  make  out  history  from  all  those  parch- 
ments written  in  dog- Latin?"  "That  depends  on 
what  you  call  easy,"  said  Shipley.  "Construing 
medieval  Latin  is  easy  enough  mostly,  when  you 
know  the  common  words  that  are  not  classical^ 
not  that  I  allow  it  to  be  dog-Latin.  Reading 
medieval  manuscript  is  only  an  afifair  of  practice 
if  it  is  fairly  well  written  and  you  have  some 
notion  what  it  is  about.  But  as  for  knowing 
what  tenth-century  or  even  thirteenth-century 
people  really  had  in  their  heads,  and  how  things 
look  to  them  at  the  time,  that's  another  story, 
and  the  more  I  learn  about  these  things  the  less 
easy  I  find  it  to  think  I  understand  them.  About 
as  easy,  I  should  say,  as" — here  he  seemed  to 
cast  about  for  a  simile — "getting  a  goal  from  a 
shy  in  Bad  Calx."  "Why,  sir,"  exclaimed  Arthur 
with  a  sort  of  explosion,  and  struggling  with  his 
company  manners,  "can  you  be  the  Shipley  who 
was  Keeper  of  the  Wall  and  got  that  goal  at  the 
tree?"  "Do  they  still  keep  up  the  memory  of 
that  old  fluke  of  mine  ?"  said  Shipley,  and  beamed 
all  over  like  a  schoolboy ;  and  Tod  lay  on  the 
•bench,  Mr.  Follett  carefully  putting  it  in  a  shaded 
corner,  while  we  discussed  the  question  of  bind- 
ing, and  Shipley  and  Arthur  were  deep  in  mys- 
teries of  Eton  football  and  other  shop,  which 
sounded  to  me  like  the  far-off  bells  of  one's 
native  village  church — they  would  be  about  as 
intelligible  to  an  outsider  as  the  difference  be- 
tween a  zamindar  and  a  taluqdar  to  the  globe- 

84 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

trotter  who  knows  all  about  India  when  he  comes 
home.  And  the  study  of  the  Rajput  charters 
didn't  come  off  that  morning. 

Just  as  I  am  closing  this  I  get  a  note  from 
Charles  accepting  for  Whitsuntide,  with  some 
obscure  remarks  about  fitting  in  with  probable 
engagements  in  Dampshire.  Pillarton,  the  mem- 
ber for  the  Clayshott  division,  who  is  a  furious 
old-fashioned  Tory,  and  cannot  abide  the  mod- 
ern social  legislation  of  his  party,  is  said  to  be 
on  the  point  of  resigning  in  a  huff.  I  wonder 
if  that  seat  is  what  Charles  is  after?  He  won't 
take  much  by  it  in  my  opinion :  but  if  so  be,  let 
it  be.  As  I  cannot  in  decency  be  expected  to 
oppose  my  own  brother,  it  will  be  a  good  excuse 
for  me  to  keep  out  of  party  politics  for  a  season. 

There  will  be  lots  of  things  to  talk  about.     I 
begin  to  count  the  days  till  I  am  to  see  you  again, 
and  I  will  gladly  endure  Laura's  dinner-party. 
lYour  loving  brother, 

Richard  Etchingham. 


85 


XI. 

Frojn  Miss  Elhahcth  Etchingham,  83  Hans  Place, 
to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Tolcarne. 

My  dear  Dickory, — Thank  you  very  much 
for  the  vegetables  that  have  just  come,  and  thank 
you  very  much  for  your  letter  containing  the 
curses,  &c.  Cauliflowers  and  curses  thankfully 
received,  dear.  And  as  you  are  all  so  learned  in 
such  matters,  tell  me  now  the  words  of  Hecate's 
ban,  "With  Hecate's  ban  thrice  blasted,  thrice 
infected,"  or  perhaps  Merlin  or  Songstress, 
though  not  ban-dogs,  would  gratify  my  curiosity. 
When  I  begged  Tracy  to  do  so  he  said  the  thing 
had  slipped  his  memory.  The  dog  seems  pre- 
occupied.    He  detests  the  town. 

For  your  banning  I  will  return  blessing,  or 
rather  for  your  curses  a  charm.  Do  you  know 
the  old  West-Country  charm  for  the  prick  of  a 
thorn? 

"Happy  man  that  Christ  was  born. 
He  was  crowned  with  a  thorn. 
He  was  pierced  through  the  skin 
For  to  let  the  poison  in; 
But  His  five  wounds  so  they  say, 
Closed  before  He  passed  away. 
In  with  healing,  out  with  thorn, 
Happy  man  that  Christ  was  born." 

86 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Ask  Margaret  to  recite  the  charm  if  ever,  in 
my  absence,  the  thorn  of  a  rose-brier  dares  to 
prick  you. 

Harry,  the  hunter,  instigated  by  primal  in- 
stinct, sweeping  the  chimney-pots  through  a 
field-glass  for  Trelawney,  the  prey,  is  a  picture 
pleasant  and  profitable  to  contemplate.  That  the 
job  pertains  to  the  work  of  the  Intelligence  De- 
partment is  an  equally  pleasing  suggestion,  and 
as  Imperial  interests  may  be  bound  up  in  the 
business,  I  will  take  your  advice  and  not  divulge 
the  fact  to  any  but  an  Anglo-Saxon  when  Harry 
and  field-glass  are  again  so  engaged.  Cats  are 
full  of  contrivance  and  resource,  and  with  Tre- 
lawney as  his  orderly — or  perhaps  rather  as  his 
colleague,  for  the  race  is  intolerant  of  authority 
— my  brother  might  go  further  and  fare  worse. 
Talking  of  throwing  back  and  kindred  subjects, 
is  Harry  the  hue  of  the  primal  man  ?  According 
to  the  author  of  a  book  I  lately  read,  Trelawney's 
cedar-coloured  coat  is  not  far  removed  from  the 
colour  of  the  primal  cat — sandy. 

I  really  do  feel  mentally  obliterated  by  what 
you  say  of  brown  calf;  reduced,  in  fact,  to  the 
point  of  thinking  that  I  might  possibly  better 
my  condition  by  changing  places  with  the  cater- 
pillar your  letter  mentions.  Yes,  yes,  yes,  I  re- 
member, when  you  refer  to  them,  those  horrible 
bindings,  your  school  prizes,  and,  later,  Laura's 
devotional  works.  But  my  memory,  when  left  to 
itself,  seems  to  select,  as  does  the  eye  of  the  artist, 
and  seems  to  leave  out  of  the  picture  everything 

87 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

not  in  keeping  with  the  time  "which  now  shines 
with  so  much  splendour  before  our  eyes  in  chron- 
icle." I  was  thinking  when  I  wrote  of  the  dear 
old  Tolcarne  books,  attired  in  their  comfortable 
russet  livery — pleasantest  of  all  linings,  to  my 
thinking,  for  a  room — and  I  was  for  the  moment  ' 
quite  oblivious  of  the  modern  binder's  work.  Ask 
Colonel  Tod's  "Rajasthan"  to  forgive  me  for 
venturing  to  suggest  that  the  heroes  should  go 
clad  in  a  garment  that  it  disgusts  you,  their  ad- 
mirer, to  touch  or  to  contemplate ;  and  let  me 
make  amends  for  the  worthlessness  of  my  advice 
by  the  gift  of  a  book  for  your  birthday — any  pro- 
curable book  that  you  will — and  bound  by  Jem's 
Oxbridge  binder  in  vellum ;  unless,  by  any 
chance,  you  would  not  despise  silk,  embroidered 
by  my  needle  ?  One  of  the  few  things  your  sis- 
ter can  do  decently  is  stitchery.  (Were  I  not 
ground  to  dust  by  your  rejoinder  I  should  at- 
tempt now,  at  once,  I  think,  something  gorgeous 
and  slightly  barbaric  for  your  dare-devil  Rajputs. 
The  five  colours  could  be  sufficiently  subdued  by 
intrenchment  in  dead-gold  and  white.) 

Or  would  you  prefer  for  your  birthday  present 
a  coppice  of  pot-nectarine  trees?  I  ask  this  be- 
cause Alice  Newton  and  I  (your  Mr,  Shipley  is 
her  brother)  went  this  morning  to  the  Botanical 
Gardens  flower  and  fruit  show.  The  flowers  were 
a  lovely  sight — a  paradise  of  Crimson-Rambler 
roses  and  silver-white  spirjea — but  it  was  the  lit- 
tle nectarine  trees,  thickly  hung  with  fruit,  that  I 
think   I   liked   best.     Fruit  trees   are   not   sufifi- 

88 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

ciently  used  for  decorative  purposes  in  gardens 
of  pleasure.  First  the  flower  and  then  the  fruit, 
and  though  "the  flower  that  once  has  blown  for 
ever  dies,"  the  melancholy  is  lessened  when  the 
falling  of  tlie  petals  means  the  forming  of  the 
fruit.  Say,  then,  if  little  nectarine  trees  shall  go 
to  you,  or  a  book?  And  if  a  book,  please,  Sir 
Richard,  what  book  ?  The  arrival  of  the  nectarine 
trees  would,  I  fear,  throw  Enticknap  into  the 
dolefullest  dumps.  Everything  green  that  grows 
he  looks  upon  as  an  addition  to  the  long  list  of 
his  grievances ;  and  I  never  could  see  why  he  ob- 
jected to  the  bullfinches :  if  they  really  do  devour 
the  fruit  buds  they  by  so  doing  save  him  the 
trouble  of  gathering  in  the  fruit. 

I  see  that  a  Tolcarne  volume  that  is  rightfully 
yours  is  here  with  our  possessions  :  "A  calendar 
made  at  Stratton  in  Norfolk  in  1755."  The 
authorities  quoted  are  calmingly  remote,  "Pliny 
says  that  bees  do  not  come  out  of  their  hives 
before  May  nth,  and  seems  to  blame  Aristotle 
for  saying  that  they  come  out  in  the  beginning 
of  spring."  "According  to  Ptolemy,  swallows 
return  to  ^gypt  about  the  latter  end  of  Jan- 
uary." (How  much  ^gypt  loses  in  appearance 
by  the  loss  of  the  diphthong.)  "Pliny  says  the 
chief  time  for  bees  to  make  honey  is  about  the 
solstice,  when  the  vine  and  thyme  are  in  blow. 
According  to  his  account,  then,  these  plants  are 
as  forward  in  England  as  in  Italy."  "Aristotle 
says  this  bird" — the  ringdove — "does  not  coo  in 
the  winter."     The  calendar  ends  abruptly  Octo- 

89 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

ber  26.     "Here  ends  the  calendar,  being  inter- 
rupted by  my  going  to  London." 

The  Vivians  are  in  Prince's  Gardens  again, 
and  Mrs.  Vivian  visited  us  yesterday.  Azore, 
the  coffee-coloured  poodle,  whose  top-knot  is 
tied  up  twice  daily  with  new  blue  riband,  and  Mr. 
Vivian,  looking  benevolent  and  saying  nothing, 
were  in  attendance.  Mrs.  Vivian  is  not  too  well 
pleased  with  Charles's  decision  to  stand  for  the 
Clayshott  division  of  Dampshire.  His  agent,  she 
says,  will,  she  supposes,  prevent  his  doing  any- 
thing extraordinarily  foolish ;  but  she  asked 
every  one  present  to  explain  to  her  why  a  rad- 
ical son-in-law  should  be  her  deplorable  fate. 
A  radical  is  always  mannerless,  she  says,  and 
when  any  one  takes  her  in  to  dinner  and 
immediately  begins  to  talk  across  her  to  her 
other  neighbour,  she  decides  at  once  that 
"the  man  is  a  Radical,"  and  she  is  never 
wrong.  I  wished  that  you  could  have  been  pres- 
ent to  see  the  expression  of  Laura's  face  whilst 
Mrs.  Vivian  proclaimed  Azore's  merits  and  the 
sentiments  that  the  merits  inspire.  "The  dog  is  a 
perfect  saint,  and  I  would  far  rather  lose  my 
husband  than  lose  him ;  and  the  worst  of  it  is 
that  he  is  infinitely  more  likely  to  be  lost  or  run 
over  than  John  is."  Laura,  of  course,  talked  as 
if  we  could  not  have  heard  aright,  and  tried,  as 
though  with  the  object  of  sparing  Mr.  Vivian's 
feelings,  to  twist  the  meaning  of  his  wife's  words. 
Her  wcll-intcndcd  efforts,  however,  I  need  not 
say,  were  needless,  for  the  office  of  a  peacemaker 

90 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

between  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Vivian  is  a  sinecure.  Poor 
Alice  Newton's  listless  rejoinder  of  "Certainly, 
if  you  wish  it,"  to  Colonel  Newton's  endless  de- 
mands is  really  significant,  though  Laura  cannot 
see  it,  of  an  unhappier  state  of  things  than  Mrs. 
Vivian's  flow  of  words  and  Mr.  Vivian's  admir- 
ing silence.  He  thinks  her  the  loveliest,  clever- 
est, wittiest  woman  in  the  world,  and  she  finds 
him  invaluable  as  a  background. 

I  am  distressed  about  Alice  Newton.  She  is 
killing  herself  with  her  good  works  and  her 
societies,  and  if  one  expostulates  she  only  an- 
swers that  it  is  not  as  easy  to  kill  oneself  as 
people  suppose.  And  do  you  remember  what  a 
lively  creature  she  used  to  be?  How  was  she 
induced  to  marry  Colonel  Newton  I  wonder? 
He  boasts  and  he  fidgets  and  he  is  rude  to  her, 
and  to  it  all  she  says  "Certainly,  if  you  wish  it," 
and  he  evidently  takes  the  compliance  as  a  tribute 
to  his  superior  worth. 

I  hear  through  Alice  that  her  brother  is  very 
happy  at  the  Parsonage  and  is  in  no  hurry  to 
come  av/ay.  You  and  Mrs.  Tallis  seem  to  be 
growing  very  thick.  Don't  make  her  an  ofTer 
of  marriage,  there  is  a  dear.  It's  not  "expected 
of  you." 

Laura  is  still  bent  upon  spending  June  in 
Scotland,  and  this  house  will  be  at  the  disposal 
of  you  and  yours  whilst  we  are  away.  Selfishly, 
I  am  glad  that  Cynthia  wishes  to  come  with  us, 
for  to  travel  tctc-a-tcfc  with  our  stepmother  would 
only,  if  amusing  at  all,  be  amusing  in  retrospect. 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

But  Harry  looks  sad  when  Cynthia  speaks  as  if 
the  prospect  were  delightful  to  her,  for  he,  with 
or  without  his  orderly,  Trelawney,  will  be  tied  to 
London  and  the  Intelligence  Department  during 
June.  In  answer  to  your  question,  Cynthia's 
second  name  is  Rose — Cynthia  Rose — I  like  the 
name  Rose  for  love  of  the  Rose  Aylmer  lines. 
What  over  and  above  the  bracing,  which  is  a 
passive,  not  an  active  process,  Laura  will  find  in 
Scotland  of  a  satisfactory  nature,  I  cannot  imag- 
ine. She  has  never  crossed  Tweed  yet,  and  she 
seems  to  think  that  to  do  so  "is  expected  of  her," 
and,  being  Laura,  she  will  in  the  future  have  a 
certain  satisfaction  in  feeling  that  she  has  "done" 
Scotland.  (Mrs.  Carstairs'  small  grandchild  told 
me  the  other  day  that  she  had  done  astronomy.) 
But  to  Laura  I  believe  the  Highlands  will  be 
savage  and  horrid  as  mountainous  country  was 
to  an  ancient,  or,  at  any  rate,  no  more  attractive 
than  the  Swiss  Alps,  as  scenery,  are  to  me.  Then, 
except  as  dinner-table  decoration,  she  does  not 
care  for  flowers.  So  what  does  she  expect  to 
find  congenial  in  Scotland  during  June  ? 

I  dreamt  of  you  last  night — an  absurd  dream. 
I  dreamt  that  you  told  me  that  it  was  your  prac- 
tice, before  falling  asleep,  to  set  a  row  of  lighted 
candles  beside  your  bed  "to  attract  Fate's  atten- 
tion." Fortunately  for  my  dreaming  peace,  the 
dream  did  not  go  on  to  tell  that  Fate  returned 
the  compliment  by  setting  you  on  fire.  And  then 
I  turned  to  dreaming  of  Alice  Newton  kneeling 
before  a  white-draped  altar  as  Calantha,  and  for 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

candles  there  was  a  torch  reversed.  "Our  orisons 
are  heard,  the  gods  are  merciful,"  she  said,  and 
went  on  to  tell  me,  as  if  it  were  good  news,  that 
at  last  she  was  to  be  allowed  to  die.  "My  child 
is  dead  you  know,  Elizabeth." 

The  scholarship  now  assembled  at  Tolcarne 
can  no  doubt  give  us  the  right  reading  of  "The 
Broken  Heart"  dirge.  Alice,  in  a  volume  of 
lyrics,  has  it  in  one  version  and  I,  in  my  head, 
have  it  in  another.  Is  this  right  or  is  this  wrong, 
your  worships : — 

"Sirs,  the  song." 

Glories,  pleasures,  pomps,  delights  and  ease 
Can  but  please 

Outward  senses  when  the  mind 

Is  untroubled  or  by  peace  refined. 

Crowns  may  flourish  and  decay. 

Beauties  shine,  but  fade  away; 

Youth  may  revel,  yet  it  must 

Lie  down  in  a  bed  of  dust; 

Earthly  honours  flow  and  waste, 

Time  alone  doth  change  and  last; 

Sorrows  mingled  with  contents  prepare 
Rest  for  care; 

Love  only  reigns  in  death;  though  art 

Can  find  no  comfort  for  a  "Broken  Heart." 

Farewell,  Dickory,  for  now,  "Multa  habui  tibi 
scribere :  sed  nolui  per  atramentum  et  calamum 
scribere  tibi.  Spero  autem  protinus  te  videre,  et 
OS  ad  OS  loquemur.    Pax  tibi." 

Elizabeth. 


93 


XII. 

A. — From  Sir  Richard  Etchingham's  Note-book: 
left  zvith  Miss  Eli::ahcth  Etchingham  in  London. 

Friday  in  Easter  Week,  in  the  Garden  at  Tolcarne. 
Enter  to  Sir  Richard,  Mr.  Follett  and 
Shipley,  bringing  back  Tod's  "Rajasthan" 
and  Sir  A.  LyaWs  ''Asiatic  Studies." 

Mr.  Follett.  Sir  Richard,  I  hope  you  will  keep 
these  books  well  now  that  you  have  them  again. 
It  is  not  good  for  Shipley  to  see  too  much  of 
them,  and  not  good  for  your  parson  to  be 
tempted  to  envy  and  jealousy.  You  have  made 
me  live  in  fear  that  you  will  entice  Shipley  away 
from  our  Middle  Ages  to  these  heathen  Asiatics. 

Shipley.  The  Vicar  may  well  say  he  is  jealous  ; 
this  is  the  very  censoriousness  of  jealousy.  No 
such  thing  as  deserting  the  Middle  Ages  is  in  my 
mind.  What  pleases  me  about  these  Rajputs, 
their  manners,  and  their  documents,  is  that  they 
have  continued  early  medieval  institutions  into 
the  nineteenth  century.  It  is  like  seeing  a  piece 
of  what  we  call  the  Dark  Ages  come  to  life. 

Sir  Richard.  There  is  much  talk  of  feudalism 
in  Tod;  but  to  me  wlio  know  nothing  of  Eu- 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

ropean  feudal  history,  his  analogies  darken  more 
than  they  enlighten;  they  need  a  fresh  com- 
mentary of  their  own. 

Mr.  Follctt.  Learned  authors  in  all  ages  have 
been  drawn  by  a  fatal  attraction  to  the  method  of 
explanation  which  we  call  obscurum  per  obsciirius, 
or,  in  English,  trying  to  throw  light  on  some- 
thing you  partly  understand  from  something  else 
which  you  understand  much  less  or  not  at  all. 

Sir  Richard.  In  this  case  the  correction  is 
supplied  by  Sir  Alfred  Lyall  in  his  essay  on  the 
Rajput  States ;  I  mean  so  far  as  he  has  shown  the 
true  nature  and  connexion  of  the  Indian  facts  on 
their  own  ground.  But  the  result  seems  to  be  to 
cut  ofif  the  Rajput  clans  from  any  distinct  Eu- 
ropean analogy,  unless  your  modern  scholars 
have  got  some  new  theory  of  feudalism  that  you 
can  fit  them  into.  I  understand  there  is  a  new 
one  about  every  ten  years.  Only  just  now,  as 
Arthur  said  the  other  day,  history  seems  to  be  all 
running  to  mangold-wurzels.  Perhaps  Shipley 
can  give  us  some  light,  as  he  seemed  to  be 
hunting. 

Shipley.  No  light  of  mine,  but  the  clan  system 
of  the  Rajputs  does  fit  in  beautifully  with  what 
has  been  worked  out  as  to  the  origins  of  feudal- 
ism in  France.  These  good  people  are,  or  in 
Tod's  time  were,  in  a  quite  regular  Carolingian 
stage — only  they  never  had  a  Charlemagne,  and 
never  developed  real  feudal  tenure  out  of  their 
tribal  allegiance.  And  what  is  very  curious  and 
pleasing  to   a  student   of   charters   is  that  the 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

Rajput  charters  are  good  for  much  else  besides 
the  caterpillar  in  hell  which  any  one  who  resumed 
the  grant  was  to  be  turned  into.  Lyall  does  not 
mention  them,  but  they  confirm  his  view  exactly. 
The  forms  are  wonderfully  like  those  of  Carolin- 
gian  documents  in  the  West  nearly  a  thousand 
years  earlier.  Why,  it  is  lucky  that  the  gulfs  of 
time,  place,  and  language  are  wide  enough  to  cut 
off  all  suspicion  of  forgery  or  imitation.  And 
one  understands  how  your  Colonel  Tod  jumped 
at  full-blown  feudalism  as  the  nearest  thing  he 
could  think  of.  He  could  know  nothing  of  the 
times  just  before  the  birth  of  feudalism  in  Europe 
— times  which  are  dark  to  us,  as  somebody  has 
said,  in  respect  to  our  ignorance  at  least  as  much 
as  theirs. 

vS"i>  Richard.  Good  for  Lyall ;  not  that  I  should 
have  believed  you  without  compulsion  if  you  had 
found  anything  against  his  work ;  and  I  am  glad 
you  have  a  good  word  for  Tod. 

Mr.  Follett.  Even  the  cursing  clause  appears 
to  be  quite  in  its  proper  place  by  analogy  to  the 
corresponding  European  period. 

Shipley.  Yes,  those  curses  disappear  from 
English  documents  when  true  feudalism  comes 
in.  The  Norman  clerks  were  too  business-like 
to  indulge  in  such  fancies,  and  devised  better 
methods  of  assurance  for  worldly  purposes.  But 
the  history  of  solemn  documents  and  their  vari- 
ous set  forms  is  a  great  matter,  and  one  might 
talk  of  it,  on  English  materials  alone,  from  now 
to  midsummer, 

96 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Sir  Richard.  You  scholars  whose  talk  is  of 
charters  ought  to  know  about  seals.  Where  is 
the  resemblance  to  a  seal  in  the  flower  called 
Solomon's  seal  that  grows  in  the  border  here? 

Mr.  Follctt.  Wait  till  it  is  out,  and  you  will 
mark  how  the  blossoms  hang  under  the  leaf  all 
in  a  row ;  when  a  charter  has  many  seals,  they 
hang  along  the  foot  of  it  in  the  same  way. 
Medieval  gardeners  who  had  heard  of  Solomon's 
seal  would  certainly  think  of  it  as  appended  to 
Solomon's  charters  in  the  fashion  they  were 
accustomed  to  see. 

Shipley.  Just  as  fifteenth-century  illuminators 
put  Joshua  and  his  knights  into  plate  armour. 

Mr.  Follctt.  While  the  armourer  himself  was 
minutely  copying  in  steel  the  latest  Court  fashion 
in  pointed  shoes. 

Sir  Richard.  But  would  the  gardener  be  much 
in  the  way  of  seeing  charters  ? 

Mr.  Follctt.  He  would  in  many  cases — those 
of  monastery  and  collegiate  gardens — be  a 
brother  or  clerk  told  ofif  for  gardening  duty,  and 
so  learned  enough  to  know  at  least  what  the  out- 
side of  a  charter  looked  like. 

Enter  Margaret  and  James  Etchingham. 

James.  Are  you  still  on  your  medieval  swear- 
words ? 

Mr.  Follctt.  Curses  on  the  breakers  of  chart- 
ers are  a  commodity  you  should  have  need  of  at 
Oxbridge,  Mr.  Etchingham,  if  all  I  hear  of  your 
reforms  be  true. 

James.     I  wish  you  could  spare  us  a  few  for  the 

97 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

makers  of  our  college  statutes.  We  are  always 
having  verbal  wrangles  over  some  clause  or 
other. 

Margaret.  Why  are  learned  men  so  fond  of 
bad  language  ?    To  be  sure,  artists  are  worse. 

Mr.  Follctt.  I  think  it  is  an  affair  of  nation 
more  than  of  profession.  Fantastic  imprecations 
and  devilries  in  general  are  mostly  Teutonic,  or 
at  any  rate  of  Northern  stock.  Our  grandfathers' 
favourite  adjective  Gothick  is  in  its  place  when 
one  talks  of  grotesques. 

Shipley.  I  always  see  that  Gothick  with  a  k.  It 
suggests  a  special  note  of  contempt  to  the  nine- 
teenth-century reader,  though  I  suppose  it  was 
not  intended.  As  the  Vicar  says,  the  Germans 
are  easily  masters  in  that  branch  of  art. 

Sir  Richard.  But  what  about  French  gro- 
tesques ? 

Shipley.  I  count  them  as  Frankish,  not  pure 
Gallic,  and  therefore  as  Germanic  in  the  larger 
sense.  Your  Italian  is  nowhere  when  he  com- 
petes with  the  Northerner  in  devilments.  He 
can  be  terrible,  but  not  terrible  and  ludicrous  at 
the  same  time.  Fra  Angelico  could  make  noth- 
ing of  devils. 

Margaret.  Why  should  he,  Mr.  Shipley,  when 
it  was  his  business  to  paint  angels?  I  suppose 
he  had  to  put  in  devils  now  and  then,  but  I  am 
sure  it  gave  him  no  pleasure.  Do  you  know 
those  lovely  angels  at  Florence  dancing  in  a  ring 
with  the  blessed  souls  at  the  gates  of  Paradise? 

Shipley.     Yes,  indeed  I  do.    There  is  plenty  of 

98 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

seamy  side  to  the  Middle  Ages,  and  I  don't  see 
how  any  honest  man  who  takes  them  at  their 
own  word  can  deny  it ;  but  such  things  as  Fra 
AngeHco's  make  one  forget  it  all. 

James.  This  also  shall  please  the  Lord  better 
than  a  devil  which  hath  horns  and  hoofs. 

Mr.  Follctt.  Amen  to  that,  Mr.  Etchingham, 
and  you  may  keep  the  devils  for  your  restoring 
architects  at  Oxbridge. 

Margaret.  Now,  Jem,  I  trust  you  are  more 
careful  when  you  call  on  the  Gainsworthys.  They 
are  frightfully  shocked  at  anyone  not  taking  the 
devil  quite  seriously.  I  thought  your  college 
made  you  believe  in  the  devil,  and  renounce 
Dissenters,  and  abjure  the  Pope,  and  all  sorts  of 
things. 

James.  So  some  journalists  appear  to  think  to 
this  day.  We  made  a  Catholic  Fellow  at  our  last 
election. 

Shipley.  The  Queen  has  promised  us  lay  peo- 
ple with  her  very  own  mouth,  which  for  this  pur- 
pose is  the  mouth  of  her  Judicial  Committee, 
that  nobody  can  require  us  to  believe  in  any 
personal  devil.  Under  your  correction,  Mr. 
Vicar,  I  think  that  is  so. 

Mr.  Follctt.  I  remember  the  case,  and  it  was 
in  substance  as  you  say.  The  Chvirch  of  England 
is  the  least  dogmatic  of  churches  in  all  things 
that  can  by  any  reasonable  construction  be  con- 
sidered not  of  the  essence  of  a  Christian  com- 
monwealth. 

Margaret.     But  is  it  the  same  for  clergymen. 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Mr.  Vicar  ?  Are  you  really  not  expected  to  be- 
lieve in  the  devil? 

Mr.  Follett.  Since  you  ask  me  as  a  clerk,  my 
dear  Miss  Margaret,  I  answer  as  a  clerk,  that  is, 
with  the  caution  befitting  an  officer  of  a  body, 
established  by  law  and  under  discipline.  The 
question  you  put  is  between  me  and — my 
bishop. 

Arthur  (entering  hastily).  Father,  here's  young 
Mr.  Squire  and  half  the  Parish  Council,  and  they 
want  you  to  go  and  look  at  those  new  inclosures 
at  the  bottom  of  Brock  Lane. 

Sir  Richard.  Coming,  my  son.  Panchdyat  kd 
Jiiikni  hat. 

B. — From  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Tolcarne,  to 
Miss  Elizabeth  Etchingham. 

Just  a  line  to  tell  you  I  find  all  well  on  coming 
back.  Margaret  and  Arthur  have  kept  house 
together  most  discreetly :  I  was  sorry  for  myself 
to  lose  a  few  days  of  his  holidays,  but  it  was 
better  than  waiting  till  they  were  over  and  leav- 
ing Margaret  all  alone.  Mrs.  Tallis  has  been 
more  than  civil  to  them,  and  treats  Margaret 
almost  like  a  daugliter.  Perhaps  Arthur  found 
their  conversation  a  trifle  dull,  but  it  is  good  for 
schoolboys  to  sit  with  old  ladies  now  and  then. 
It  tempers  their  robustiousness,  and  gives  them 
a  sort  of  reverence  for  antiquity  which  familiarity 
prevents  them  from  learning  at  home.  Of  course, 
anybody  can  teach  young  people  a  sort  of  false 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

external  respect  by  snubbing  them  at  an  early 
age.  But  that  is  the  way  to  make  the  real  thing 
impossible — and  very  thankful  I  am  to  you,  not 
for  having  done  nothing  of  the  sort  yourself  while 
you  were  in  charge,  for  you  could  not  if  you 
tried,  but  for  not  having  let  other  people  do  it. 
This  morning  we  (Mrs.  Tallis  and  I)  had  our 
perambulation  of  those  little  parcels  in  the  hams, 
with  Mr.  Follett  assisting.  Luckily  there  were 
no  treaties  with  native  princes  or  chiefs  to  be 
considered,  and  the  only  question  of  effective 
occupation  that  might  have  been  raised  if  we 
chose  was  who  had  been  accustomed  to  cut  the 
old  thornbush  in  the  place  where  there  is  a  double 
bank  and  ditch,  so  that  one  cannot  be  sure  of 
locating  the  boundary  by  the  outer  edge  of  the 
ditch  in  the  usual  way.  It  is  really  quite  a  simple 
matter  of  exchange,  and  obviously  useful  to  both 
parties.  The  only  practical  doubt  is  whether  we 
must  have  in  the  family  solicitor  and  do  it  in  due 
form.  The  Vicar  says  it  is  worth  thinking  of 
whether  we  won't  just  alter  the  fences  and  ex- 
change rough  plans,  and  leave  lapse  of  time  to 
make  all  right.  Such  things,  it  seems,  are  not 
uncommon.  I  suppose  this  is  the  only  country 
in  Europe  where  quite  a  large  proportion  of  im- 
portant afifairs,  from  the  Constitution  downwards, 
are  worked  by  just  doing  the  thing  you  want  and 
saying  as  little  as  possible  about  it  even  to  your- 
self. As  for  British  India,  you  know  it  is  a  land 
of  codes  and  regulations  and  minutes.  And  to 
think  that  there  are  well-meaning  "able  officials" 

lOI 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

who  want  to  carry  the  formaHzing  business  into 
our  deaHngs  with  native  States !  Well,  if  it  ever 
happens,  my  only  comfort  is  that  I  shall  not  be 
there  to  see  the  mess. 

Parson  Follett  agrees  in  your  text  of  the  song. 
The  modern  editors  who  print 

"  The  outward  senses  when  the  mind 
Is  or  untroubled,  or  by  peace  refined," 

only  reverse  and  break  up  the  rhythm  of  the 
whole  piece  under  pretence  of  making  two  lines 
look  more  regular.  Such  folk  are  of  the  tribe 
whom  Mr.  Swinburne  somewhere  calls  deaf  and 
desperate  finger-counters. 

Perhaps  I  ought  to  consult  Charles  about  that 
exchange :  are  not  such  things  the  speciality  of 
the  Chancery  Bar?  But  he  will  have  Clayshott 
Division  on  the  brain  for  weeks  to  come.  Pie 
threatens  to  send  me  his  address  in  draft — on  the 
chance  of  converting  me,  I  suppose — and  it  may 
be  here  by  any  post.  Good-bye,  dear  Elizabeth : 
you  see  I  have  almost  written  a  letter. 

Your  loving 

DiCKORY. 


102 


XIII. 

'From  Miss  Elizabeth  Etchingham,  83  Hans  Place, 
to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Tolcarne. 

"Trusty  and  wel  beloved,  we  greet  you  well." 
"Trusty  and  wel  beloved"  you  are  missed. 
There  was  more  luck  about  the  house  when  you 
were  here.  Tracy  too  is  missed ;  and  his  little 
empty  collar,  with  its  inscription,  83  Hans  Place, 
has  now  something  of  the  sacred  relique  about 
it  in  Cynthia's  eyes.  But  it  was  cruel  to  keep 
him  in  London.  Spaniels  are  not  the  dogs  for 
a  town,  and  I  always  thought  that  his  frolic 
humour  would  land  him  under  a  wheel.  Now, 
I  suppose,  he  is  racing  round  and  round  the  lawn, 
fringes  and  love-locks  flowing  in  the  wind.  Does 
he  still  pause  in  his  impetuous  career  to  insult 
Eld  in  the  person  of  blind  old  Merlin  with  belated 
invitations  to  play? 

I  found  your  notebook  after  you  were  gone 
yesterday  hidden  away  with  my  sewing  tools. 
I  remember  you  pushed  it  under  a  pyramid  of 
embroidery-silks  to  screen  it  from  Laura's  in- 
quisitorial eyes  and  then  forgot  it,  careless  crea- 
ture. (No,  you  are  not  really  careless.)  I  loobed 
into  the  book  again  before  sending  it  after  you, 
and  I  am  half  inclined  to  exchange  my  derivation 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

of  the  name  Solomon's  Seal  for  Mr.  Follett's. 
His  is  the  prettier  as  well  as  the  more  ancient. 
The  seventeenth-century  garden-books  explain 
the  name  by  the  circles  that  show  when  the  root 
is  cut,  which  "do  somewhat  represent  a  seal." 
The  doctrine  of  signatures  has  always  had  a  fas- 
cination for  me.  I  should  like  to  believe,  as  I 
read  once  upon  a  time  in  Cole's  "Adam  in  Eden," 
that  "the  fruit  of  the  Pome-citron  tree  being  like 
to  the  heart  in  form,  is  a  very  soveraign  cordiall 
for  the  same."  That  the  walnut,  having  the  per- 
fect signature  of  the  head,  is  the  one  thing  need- 
ful for  the  brain ;  that  viper's  bugloss  is  an  espe- 
cial remedy  against  the  bitings  of  vipers  and  all 
other  serpents,  "as  is  betrayed  by  both  stalk  and 
seed."  The  author  of  the  book  in  question  is  a 
staunch  upholder  of  the  doctrine  of  signatures, 
yet  he  condemns  fanciful  theorising  in  others, 
and  will  not  accept  the  story  "told  by  a  fellow 
herbalist,  Culpeper,  I  think,  of  the  Earl  of  Essex, 
his  horses,"  which  being  drawn  up  in  a  body  lost 
their  shoes  upon  the  downs  near  Tiverton,  be- 
cause moon-wort — loosener  of  locks,  fetters,  and 
shoes — grows  upon  heaths.  Culpeper  "was  very 
unable  to  prove"  that  moon-wort  grew  upon 
Tiverton  downs,  and  the  tale  of  the  lost 
shoes  must  therefore,  in  his  more  cautious 
contemporary's  opinion,  be  taken  with  a  grain 
of  salt. 

It  was  to-day.  was  it  not?  that  Mr.  Follctt 
was  to  guide  your  steps  to  r)ratton  Leys,  there 
to  see  the  "devil's  door"  in  the  north  wall  of  the 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

church  ?  I  suppose  the  door  is  no  longer  thrown 
open  during  the  Baptismal  service,  for  the  devil 
to  escape  at  the  Renunciation,  and  carefully 
bolted  and  barred  on  all  other  occasions?  Mr. 
Shipley  visited  us  yesterday  evening.  He  seemed 
very  sorry  to  have  come  just  too  late  to  encounter 
You.  I  told  him  that  I  had  heard  that  when 
Medievalists  met,  the  devil,  who  ruled  their 
period,  had,  naturally  enough,  taken  a  prominent 
part  in  the  conversation,  and  he  answered  that 
the  conversation  was  of  angels  too.  Tell  Mar- 
garet that  I  commend  her  for  asking,  as,  accord- 
ing to  Mr.  Shipley,  she  did,  how  Fra  Angelico, 
who  began  painting  with  prayer,  could  have  seen 
the  devil  at  his  worst.  She  seems  to  have  in- 
quired too,  a  propos  of  the  inferiority  of  Italian 
demons  to  the  Flemish  variety,  if  Spinello's  devil, 
who  slew  the  artist  that  created  him  by  appear- 
ing in  a  dream,  and  asking  the  terrified  painter 
where  he  had  seen  him  looking  so  hideous  as  in 
the  fresco,  and  why  he  ventured  to  ofifer  him  so 
humiliating  an  affront,  was  not  terrific  enough. 
The  shock  of  so  unusual  an  incident  naturally 
killed  Spinello,  and  Mr.  Shipley  thinks  that 
Margaret  has  substantiated  the  claim  of  the 
Italian  devil  to  a  prominent  place  in  Pande- 
monium. 

Later. — I  was  sent  for  by  Laura  this  afternoon, 
and  found  the  Vivians  and  Alice  Newton  in  the 
drawing-room.  "I  am  not  again  preventing  your 
finishing  a  letter  to  Richard,  I  hope,  as  he  only 

los 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

left  us  yesterday;'  poor  aggrieved  Laura  said  in 
her  huffed  tone ;  the  expression  of  which  hope 
excited  Mrs.  Vivian's  easily  roused  curiosity,  and, 
as  she  does  not  scruple  to  put  questions  when 
her  interest  is  awakened,  I  found  myself  under 
cross-examination,  and  when  asked  what  I  was 
writing  to  you  about  to-day,  answered,  "I  am 
writing  to  Richard  about  the  devil."  I  wish 
words  would  paint  the  expression  of  Laura's  face. 
"The  devil,"  Mrs.  Vivian  cried  with  increased 
vivacity,  "that's  most  interesting.  Somebody 
was  telling  me  about  the  devil  the  other  evening 
and  amused  me  very  much,  A  man's  devil  was 
just  the  god  of  his  enemy,  was  he  not?  and  did 
not  the  devil  first  of  all  come  out  of  Persia?" 
Laura  murmured  something  about  the  devil  and 
llie  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge.  "Oh,  my  dear 
Lady  Etchingham,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Vivian  with 
her  sweetest  smile,  "after  your  serpent  you  have 
to  wait  centuries  for  your  devil.  For  your 
familiar  horned,  hoofed,  satyr  devil  I  feel  pretty 
sure  that  you  have  to  wait  till  the  Middle  Ages. 
What  is  the  date  of  the  satyr  devil,  John?"  Mr. 
Vivian,  to  whom,  as  he  mechanically  stroked 
Azore,  Alice  Newton  with  admirable  patience 
was  trying  to  talk,  had  not  time  to  produce,  if 
he  knew  it,  the  date  of  the  horned,  hoofed  ajipari- 
tion's  first  appearance  before  Mrs.  A'^ivian's  tide 
of  words  flowed  on  again.  "And  I  believe  that 
the  further  cast  you  go  the  huger  and  more 
hideous  tlic  devils  become.  But  Paris  was  a 
great  place  for  devils,  and  Dante  went  there  for 

io6 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

his  devils,  his  three-headed  devils,  as  I  go  for 
my  clothes.  And  do,  Elizabeth,  if  you  are  writ- 
ing, ask  Sir  Richard  if  he  thinks  those  dreadful 
Campo  Santo  devils — the  Campo  Santo  of  Pisa — 
and  those  at  Mount  Athos  are  cousins?  and  if 
they  can  have  flown  into  Italy  from  Greece  and 
into  Greece  from  Persia?  It's  a  bore  not  to 
know."  I  was  thinking  that  Blake  and  sal  vol- 
atile would  have  to  be  rung  for  on  Laura's  be- 
half, and  a  copy  of  the  Papal  bull  that  teaches 
the  exorcising  of  fiends  for  the  benefit  of  us  all, 
but  fortunately  at  that  moment  in  came  Colonel 
Newton,  and  to  my  unspeakable  relief  I  soon 
heard :  "You  can  begin  a  war  without  an  army, 
but  you  can't  finish  one" ;  and  Laura's  response, 
"Oh  no,  of  course." 

Mrs.  Vivian,  however,  had  by  no  means  talked 
herself  out,  and  went  on  to  demand  sympathy 
in  piteous  accents  on  the  fount  of  the  "frightful, 
horrible,  hideous  Christian  Death"  that  had  sup- 
planted the  "pretty  Death"  of  the  Pagans.  "Yes," 
Alice  Newton  said,  "it  would  be  interesting  to 
trace  the  twin-brother  of  Sleep  to  the  stern  deity 
of  the  tragedians  and  on  to  the  ghastly  personifi- 
cation of  Death  which  had  little  to  separate  it 
from  the  medieval  devil.  Elizabeth,  do  you  re- 
member the  winged  figure  girded  with  a  sheathed 
sword,  from  the  temple,  I  think,  of  the  Ephesian 
Artemis  ?  The  face  is  so  dreamy  and  wistful  and 
the  hand  lifted  as  if  beckoning.  It  was  thought 
by  some,  w^as  it  not?  to  represent  Eros,  and  by 
some,  Thanatos.    The  doubt  is  attractive."    Alice 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

then  looked  as  if  she  had  forgotten  all  of  us  till 
jerked  back  by  Colonel  Newton,  who  broke  away 
from  Mrs.  Vivian's  announcement  that  the  Chris- 
tian artist's  daughter  of  Herodias  and  John  Bap- 
tist's head  was  just  the  Pagan  Muse  holding  a 
mask,  to  ask  Alice  if  she  had  remembered  to  tell 
the  servants  that  he  was  dining  out.  "Jupiter  and 
his  eagle  were  used  up,  Hugo  Ennismore  says, 
for  St.  John  the  Evangelist,  and  the  poor  Cupids 
had  to  be  angels,"  was  what  I  then  heard  Mrs. 
Vivian  say,  for  want  of  a  male  listener,  to  Laura. 
"If  Nature  is  a  spendthrift,  Art  was  always  eco- 
nomical, wasn't  it,  Elisabetta?" 

Mrs.  Vivian  sent  you  a  sheaf  of  amicable  mes- 
sages. She  was  very  sorry  not  to  have  seen  you. 
You  must  come  and  dine,  "just  ourselves,"  when 
you  are  next  in  London.  "If  Sir  Richard  had 
married  my  daughter,"  she  told  Alice  Newton, 
"I  should  not  so  much  have  minded.  Sir  Richard 
is  charming,  very  amusing,  and  original.  But 
I  have  a  son-in-law  whose  hobby  is  drains, 
and   whose  Paradise   is  a  Trades   Union   Con- 


Thursday  evening. — Your  letter  has  come.  Do 
you  remember  Harry's  trick  of  tying  my  hair  to 
the  back  of  my  chair  when  my  eyes  and  attention 
were  riveted  to  the  multiplication  table,  and  then 
exclaiming  "Luna  has  another  bird !"  with  the 
object  of  seeing  his  sister  rise,  chair  and  all,  on 
the  strength  of  a  cat's  imaginary  misdemeanour? 
Dear,  your  pronounced  references  to  Mrs.  Tallis, 

108 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

who  struck  70  the  day  you  were  born,  somehow 
remind  me  of  Harry's  mischievous  procHvities. 
You  may  tell  Mrs.  Tallis  from  me,  that  though 
she  treats  Margaret  "almost  as  a  daughter,"  by 
a  clause  in  our  father's  will  no  one  can  adopt  yoii 
without  my  permission,  and  that  permission  I 
have  not  the  slightest  intention  of  granting.  After 
Margaret  you  belong  to  me,  and  I  command  you, 
by  holy  obedience,  to  resign  yourself  meekly  to 
the  inevitable. 

No,  I  don't  think  your  girl  and  boy  have  had 
the  life  trodden  out  of  them.  I  like  the  natural 
growth,  and  never  could  believe  in  the  crushing 
beyond  recognition  of  minds  and  spirits.  Nor 
is  there  any  excuse  for  it  now-a-days,  for  it  is 
not  the  fashion  of  the  age  to  obliterate,  as  it  was 
more  or  less  in  our  childhood.  The  other  way 
is  the  happier,  and,  as  far  as  I  can  see,  unwilling 
obedience  is  little  better  than  rebellion.  "Libertie 
kindleth  love,  love  refuseth  no  labour,  labour 
obtaineth  whatsoever  it  seeketh."  Nor  do  I  ap- 
prove the  crushing  of  parents,  and  if  Margaret 
or  Arthur  bully  you,  be  so  good  as  to  send  them 
to  me  for  correction.  You  shall  not  be  bullied 
either  (except  by  one  person  whose  name,  oddly 
enough,  happens  to  be — Elizabeth).  You  have 
not  yet,  I  think,  heard  Mrs.  Vivian  on  the  subject 
of  her  sons?  Reggie,  she  says,  makes  her  life  a 
burden  to  her  when  she  takes  herself  to  Eton  to 
see  him.  He  prods  and  pokes  her  with  his  elbow 
at  every  turn,  lest  she  outrage  the  proprieties,  and 
sendsherhomebruised  black  and  blue.  He  would 

109 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

rather  see  her  burnt,  she  informs  everybody,  than 
button  the  lowest  button  of  his  waistcoat,  roll  up 
his  umbrella,  or  walk  down  the  roadway  instead 
of  on  the  pavement.  No  woman,  she  declares,  is 
enslaved  by  fashion  and  the  opinion  of  contem- 
poraries to  the  extent  that  a  schoolboy  is.  Hugh, 
when  visited  at  Oxbridge,  she  finds  equally  exact- 
ing in  another  direction,  and  her  theory  is  that,  as 
girls  grow  free  and  eas}^,  boys  grow  precise. 
Hugh  has  something  of  the  Methodist  or  the 
Quaker  in  his  temper  of  mind,  according  to  his 
mother,  and  is  constantly  correcting  her  for  exag- 
geration, whilst  himself  afifixing  D.V.  to  the  an- 
nouncement of  his  plans.  "He  dragons  his  sis- 
ters, as  though  he  were  a  mother  of  the  early 
Victorian  period,  and  his  propriety  is  something 
absolutely  abnormal." 

Charles's  address  has  not  yet  come  our  way. 
Here,  for  the  sake  of  peace,  I  ignore  his  political 
proceedings.  Honest  Harry,  as  we  know,  thinks 
sin  and  radicalism  one  and  the  same  thing,  and 
considers  the  family  disgraced  by  Charles's  poli- 
tics. What  Charles's  politics  are  I  don't  myself 
quite  know,  and  you  should  enlighten  me.  He 
and  Minnie  are  in  Dampshire  now.  Mrs.  Vivian 
tells,  that  when  driving  across  country  and  recit- 
ing his  speeches  to  Minnie,  Charles,  who  cer- 
tainly is  a  shockingly  bad  driver,  was  jerked  out 
of  the  dogcart.  Mrs.  Vivian  assures  me  that 
Minnie  was  far  too  deeply  engrossed  in  thinking 
out  the  plot  of  her  next  novel  to  notice,  till  the 
horse  of  its  own  accord  drew  up,  that  her  hus- 

IIO 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

band  was  no  longer  seated  at  her  side,  but  pros- 
trate in  the  ditch. 

Poor  Minnie  is  in  her  mother's  bad  books  at 
present.  She  is  staying  at  Clayshott  with  "a  most 
horrible,  rich,  vulgar  woman,  a  Mrs.  Potters,  who 
fawns  upon  her  in  the  hopes  of  getting  some- 
thing out  of  her :  which  Minnie,  taken  in  by  ful- 
some flattery,  is  too  dense  to  see."  (I  am  again 
quoting.)  The  Tory  grandc  dame  of  the  place 
is  Lady  Leyton,  and  the  Leytons  and  the  Vivians, 
though  Minnie  apparently  ignores  or  forgets  it, 
are  old  family  friends.  Lord  Leyton  is  a  builder 
of  model  cottages  and  Lady  Leyton  is  one  of  the 
kindest  women  in  the  world,  "a  friend  of  the 
poor,"  whose  pony  carriage  if  not  at  one  cottage 
door  is  at  another.  Into  this  Conservative  Ar- 
cadia poor  Minnie,  backed  by  Mrs.  Vivian's  hete 
noire — Mrs.  Potters — and  armoured  with  all  the 
courage  that  crude  feminine  Radicalism  inspires, 
is  about  to  penetrate.  Do  you  think  she  will 
escape  intact?  Charles,  Minnie  and  the  babies 
were  at  Vivian-End  in  Easter  week.  Little 
Harry  had  some  unusual  experiences  and  came 
running  in  from  the  garden  in  hot-haste  to 
say,  "Mini,  Mim,  I  hear  the  slugs  eatin'  Gran's 
flowers." 

The  question  of  the  existence  of  ancient  vine- 
yards in  Britain  is,  I  see,  discussed  in  one  of  the 
newspapers.  There  were  vineyards  at  Ely,  at  all 
events,  a  very  long  while  ago,  according  to  the 
Latin  rhyme,  which  was  Englished  long  ago  too. 
I  was  too  lazy  to  send  the  rhyme  to  the  news- 

III 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

paper — but   here   is   the   17th    Century   English 
version  for  you  : — 

"  Four  things  of  Elie  Towne  much  spoken  are 
The  Leaden  Lanthorne,  Maries  Chappel  rare 
The  mighty  Mil-hill  in  the  Minster  field 
And  fruitful  Vineyards  which  sweet  Wines  do  yield." 

Good-bye  for  now,  Dickory,  and  write  again 
soon. 

"Je  prie  a  Dieu  que  il  vous  doint  ce  que  vostre 
ceur  desir." 

Elizabeth. 


113 


XIV. 

Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Tolcarne,  to  Miss 
Elizabeth  Etchingham,  London. 

My  dear  Elizabeth, — Charles  has  sent  me  a 
proof  or  early  copy  of  his  address  to  the  electors 
of  the  Clayshott  division.  There  is  a  long  para- 
graph about  ground  values  and  betterment,  the 
utility  of  which  in  a  Dampshire  farming  district 
is  not  obvious  to  my  mind;  but  then  I  don't 
understand  home  politics.  Also  the  inevitable  de- 
nunciation of  frontier  wars,  which  I  suspect  will 
not  to  be  relished,  as  a  Clayshott  man  has  got  his 
promotion  as  sergeant-major,  and  has  been  writ- 
ing home  enthusiastic  letters  about  Johnny 
Gurkha  (this  information  is  not  from  my  vener- 
able Egeria,  Mrs.  Tallis,  but  from  the  gossip  of 
the  last  parish  council  meeting).  Also  the  iniq- 
uity of  the  Indian  laws  against  the  native  press 
(there  are  no  press  laws  and  no  distinction  be- 
tween native  or  vernacular  and  Anglo-Indian 
publications,  and  the  "Anglo-Indian  community" 
has  turned  against  the  Government  on  that  ques- 
tion just  because  they  most  properly  refused  to 
make  any  such  distinction,  but  that  is  a  detail 
which  I  shall  not  impart  to  Charles,  as  he  would 
not  believe  a  prejudiced  official).  Also  a  jeremiad 
on  the  wickeclness  of  subsidising  landlords :  I  be- 

"3 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

lieve  the  landlords  in  that  part  of  Dampshire  hap- 
pen to  be  popular.  But  you  will  doubtless  have  a 
copy  of  the  thing  too,  with  or  without  official 
commentary.  For  my  part,  I  must  follow  the 
example  of  higher  Powers  by  issuing  a  proclama- 
tion of  strict  neutrality. 

Mr.  Weekes  has  negotiated  an  exchange  of 
duty,  to  the  relief  of  all  parties.  I  don't  much 
think  we  shall  see  him  here  again. 

Tracy  is  very  well  and  happy,  though  we  can- 
not get  Merlin  to  treat  him  with  anything  better 
than  dignified  acquiescence.  Merlin  has  arrived'* 
at  the  stage  of  the  very  holy  Brahman  who,  hav-^ 
ing  fulfilled  all  his  duties  as  a  householder,  left  a 
son  to  maintain  the  family  sacrifices,  and  mas- 
tered all  the  wisdom  of  the  Upanishads,  retires 
from  the  world  and  spends  the  rest  of  his  life  in 
pure  meditation :  which,  being  reduced  to  terms 
of  canine  philosophy,  signifies  that  Merlin  has 
ceased  to  hunt  rabbits,  and  is  almost  indifTerent 
to  the  mention  of  rats. 

If  Mrs.  Vivian  knew  anything  about  Christian 
art,  says  the  \'icar,she  would  know^  that  the  prev- 
alence of  the  skull  and  cross-bones  business  in 
churches  dates  from  the  Renaissance,  rather  late 
in  that,  and  not  from  the  Middle  Ages,  This,  of 
course,  said  I,  does  not  alter  the  fact  that  any 
common  Athenian  stonemason,  from  the  days 
of  Pericles  to  those  of  the  Antonines  (let  us  say, 
to  be  on  the  safe  side),  could  make  a  dignified 
and  graceful  work  of  art  of  a  funeral  monument,^ 
and  certainly  the  average  modern  sculptoj^let' 

114 


1 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

alone  stonemason,  can't.  No,  says  the  Vicar,  but 
that  is  not  because  he  is  oppressed  by  super- 
stitious ideas ;  it  is  because  he  generally  has  no 
ideas  at  all.  We  agreed  that  professing  and  call- 
ing oneself  a  heathen  does  not  suffice  to  make 
one  an  artist ;  and  also,  India  having  taught  me 
to  be  patient  before  many  mysteries,  I  submitted 
to  Mr.  Follett  that  we  really  know  next  to  noth- 
ing about  the  conditions — beyond  the  obvious 
ones  of  available  material,  adequate  skill  of  handi- 
craft, and  a  certain  superfluity  of  wealth  and 
leisure — which  determine  an  epoch  of  great  art 
or  good  taste.  Do  we  know,  by  the  way,  whether 
the  Athenians  of  the  classic  age  would  not  have 
admired,  if  they  had  ever  had  the  chance,  our  in- 
ventions which  are  denounced  in  their  name? 
Indian  princes — able  ones  too — who  live  in  a 
splendid  harmony  of  form  and  colour,  the  envy 
of  European  artists,  delight  in  our  musical  boxes 
and  childish  mechanical  toys.  So  did  Italian 
noblemen  in  the  seventeenth  century,  as  witness 
Lassels'  "Voyage  of  Italy."  And  are  we  not 
wringing  our  hands  to  see  the  abominations  of 
Brussels  and  Kidderminster  patterns  spoiling  the 
design  of  Asiatic  carpets?  Bad  taste,  one  fears,  is 
at  least  as  catching  as  good. 

By  the  way,  you  have  not  seen  Lassels,  at  least 
not  my  copy :  the  spoils  of  Brindisi,  where  it  had 
drifted  somehow  to  that  pleasant  little  book-shop 
on  the  quay  where  a  German  couple  are  delighted 
to  sell  you  the  comic  pictures  of  Munich.  I  meant 
to  bring  it  to  town,  but  forgot.    "The  Voyage  of 

IIS 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Italy,  or  a  compleat  journey  throiig-h  Italy.  In 
Two  Parts.  With  the  Characters  of  the  People, 
and  the  Description  of  the  Chief  Toivns,  Churches, 
Monasteries,  Tombs,  Libraries,  Pall  aces.  Villas, 
Gardens,  Pictures,  Statues,  and  Antiquities.  As 
also  of  the  Interest,  Government,  Riches,  Force,  &c., 
of  all  the  Princes.  With  Instructions  concerning 
Travel.  By  Richard  Lassels,  Gent.,  who  Travelled 
through  Italy  Five  times,  as  Tutor  to  several  of 
the  English  Nobility  and  Gentry.  Never  before 
Extant,  Newly  Printed  at  Paris,  and  are  to  be 
sold  in  London,  by  lohn  Starkey,  at  the  Mitre  in 
Fleet-street  near  Temple-Barr,  1670."  An  ample 
title  this  for  a  plain  squat  little  book  of  just  under 
450  pages.  The  author  was  an  English  Catholic. 
His  highest  epithet  of  praise  is  "neat"  :  St.  Peter's 
at  Rome,  if  I  remember  right,  is  "exceeding 
neat."  At  Florence  he  heard  that  there  had  been 
such  a  person  as  Dante,  for  he  mentions  among 
other  famous  men  whose  tombs  you  may  see  in 
the  Duomo  "Dante  the  Florentine  Poet,  whose 
true  Picture  is  yet  to  be  seen  here  in  a  red  gown." 
He  seems  to  have  thought  that  Joannes  Acutius, 
"an  English  knight  and  General  anciently  of  the 
Pisani,"  ought  to  have  been  Sharpe  by  name, 
and  to  have  had  some  difficulty  in  believing  that 
Acutius  represents  Hazvkzvood.  Mr.  Lassels  was 
not  a  very  clever  man. 

What  really  interested  him  at  Florence  was 
that  "by  special  favour  we  got  the  sight  of  the 
Great  Dukes  fair  Diamond,  which  he  always 
keeps  under  lock  and  key.     Its  absolutely  the 

116 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

fairest  in  Europe.  It  weigheth  138  carats,  and  its 
almost  an  inch  thick :  and  then  our  Jewellers  will 
tell  you  what  its  worth."  And  wherever  Lassels 
went  he  was  on  the  look  out  for  such  matters 
as  fancy  clocks,  watches  in  a  walnut-shell,  and 
"wetting  sports" — the  unexpected  fountains 
which  spring  up  to  surprise  the  unwary  visitor 
in  great  men's  gardens.  I  have  heard  that  a  fine 
specimen  of  this  Italian  jest,  which  continued  in 
fashion  well  into  the  eighteenth  century,  is  extant 
and  in  good  order  at  Chats  worth.  Why  did  not 
the  Italian  adventurers  who  left  their  mark  on 
the  domestic  architecture  and  decoration  of  In- 
dian noblemen  introduce  "wetting  sports"  as  a 
regular  part  of  the  ornaments  that  no  prince's 
palace  should  be  without?  The  princes  of  the 
Mogul  period  would  certainly  have  taken  to 
them.  Want  of  engineering  resources,  perhaps, 
though  the  hydraulics  required  for  that  kind  of 
diversion  are  simple  enough. 

Jem  has  been  investigating  the  roads  north  of 
London  (I  think  he  had  some  examination  or 
conference  at  Mill  Hill),  and  sends  me  a  savage 
growl  at  the  Middlesex  County  Council  for  the 
state  in  which  they  leave  their  roads  in  those 
parts.  Riding  down  from  Mill  Hill  to  Hendon, 
he  says,  is  like  being  tossed  in  a  blanket  among 
sacks  full  of  stones ;  and  the  steep  places  are 
really  almost  dangerous,  by  reason  of  their 
roughness,  to  any  one  but  an  experienced  rider — 
not  merely  "dangerous"  in  the  danger-board 
sense,  which,  in  the  home  counties  at  any  rate. 


The  ELchingham  Letters 

means,  with  very  few  exceptions,  that  you  can 
ride  down  with  care  in  ordinary  conditions  of 
weather  and  surface. 

Jem  also  says  that  he  is  pleased  with  Arthur's 
promise  of  scholarship,  which  he  took  some  little 
pains  to  look  into.  He  greatly  approves  the  old 
Eton  plan  of  letting  boys  read  the  classics  in  con- 
siderable masses  and  acquire  a  feeling  for  them 
as  literature,  instead  of  treating  them  as  reper- 
tories of  linguistic  puzzles.  There  is  plenty  of 
time  at  the  University  to  find  out  how  hard  the 
hard  places  of  easy  authors  really  are.  But,  Jem 
says,  there  are  really  no  easy  Latin  authors  and 
very  few  Greek. 

I  wonder  whether  Tennyson's  "Promise  of 
May"  contains  a  cryptic  allusion  to  May  weather. 
It  is  strange  that  the  name  of  that  poetic  month 
is  conspicuous  in  the  two  least  good  pieces  of 
work  he  ever  did  (the  other  being  the  May 
Queen).  Mr.  FoUett  remembers  Tennyson  once 
saying,  a  long  time  ago,  that  an  English  sum- 
mer was  like  living  in  an  undressed  salad.  All 
the  neighbours  are  grumbling  at  the  unseason- 
able weather.  I  think  of  what  the  sun  is  now  in 
the  desert  round  Bikanir,  and  feci  like  Anson's 
sailors  when  they  hailed  the  "chearful  gray  sky" 
on  the  Peruvian  coast  after  a  long  baking  in  the 
south  seas. 

Your  loving  brother, 

Dtckory. 

P.S. — I  must  send  you  Lassels  by  post.  He 
will  amuse  you. 

ii8 


XV. 

Miss  Elisabeth  EtcliingJiani,   S3   Hans  Place,   to 
Sir  Richard  EfcJiingJiam,  Tolcanie. 

Dearly  beloved  Dickory, — I  feel  crosser 
than  words  can  say.  So  enraged  indeed  have  I 
become  that  fortunate  for  you  is  it  that  you  are 
not  within  reach.  I  have  pent-up  grumbles  and 
growls  enough  to  last  from  to-day  till  Christ- 
mas, and  were  you  here  you  would  think  that 
the  state  of  the  stone-deaf  was  not  without  com- 
pensations. My  temper,  I  find,  is  not  of  the  kind 
that  improves  with  keeping,  and  I  make  up  for 
persistent  self-control  by  indulging  the  accu- 
mulation of  the  very  spirit  that  I  long  resisted. 
You  know  how  I  have  preached,  if  you  don't 
know  how  I  have  practised,  forbearance  with 
Laura  since  we  came  to  London.  I  really  have 
toiled  and  moiled  to  throw  oil  on  the  troubled 
family  waters,  and  have  found  a  thousand  reasons 
that  don't  exist  for  Charles's  lapses  in  the  way 
of  visiting  his  relations,  for — for  everything,  in 
short,  of  which  Laura  complains.  And  now,  sud- 
denly I  see  myself  wishing  to  stir  up  every  dor- 
mant evil  passion  and  embroil  each  member  of 
the  family.  Restraint  evidently  does  not  suit  my 
temperament. 

I  begin  to  think  that  you  were  right  in  sug- 

119 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

gesting  that  existence  with  Laura  is  unworkable. 
We  shall  never  amalgamate,  and  you  cannot 
imagine  how  extraordinary  jealous  she  is  in  the 
pettiest  matters.  At  present,  you  away,  she  has 
fixed  upon  my  relations  with  Harry  as  a  per- 
sonal calamity.  Harry  has  reached  the  point  iii 
his  falling  in  love  process  at  which,  if  he  cannot 
talk  to  Cynthia,  he  must  talk  of  her,  and,  as  even 
the  dumb  speak  when  thus  bewitched,  Harry, 
who  in  normal  frames  of  mind  is  not  taciturn, 
now,  whenever  the  opportunity  offers,  pours  forth 
a  perfect  torrent  of  words  on  the  subject  of 
Cynthia's  perfections.  Mrs.  Vivian  now-a-days, 
or  rather  now-a-nights,  takes  Cynthia  to  and  fro 
pretty  often  (Cynthia  and  Blanche  have  struck  up 
a  friendship),  and  the  evenings  that  Harry  and  I 
spend  at  home  he  looks  upon  as  hours  set  apart 
for  the  expounding  of  his  hopes  and  his  fears. 
And  here  ^omes  Laura's  latest  and  largest  griev- 
ance. She  bitterly  resents  my  sitting  below  with 
Harry  and  his  cigarettes  after  dinner  whilst  she 
writes  letters  in  the  drawing-room.  Why,  please, 
may  not  I  sit  with  my  own  ])rother,  or  with  any- 
body else's  brother,  for  all  that,  and  not  be 
treated  as  if  I  had  broken  every  law,  human  and 
divine?  It  is  absurd.  If  Laura  chose  to  use  the 
sense  with  which  I  suppose  an  indulgent  Provi- 
dence provided  her,  would  not  she  know  that  you, 
Harry,  and  I  must  be  more  to  each  other  than 
she  is  to  us?    But  she  will  not  acquiesce. 

When  first  we  came  to  London  Harry  did  not 
trouble  about  her  one  way  or  the  other,  but  ac- 


120 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

cepted  her  as  he  does  the  stair-carpet — as  part 
of  the  furnishings  of  the  house,  though  the  stair- 
carpet  happily  does  not  rise  up  and  require  of 
each  wanderer  who  returns  a  map  indicating  with 
Ordnance  Survey  exactitude  the  course  of  his 
wanderings.  But  during  the  last  week  or  two 
Harry  has  come  to  consider  Laura  the  person- 
ification of  his  life's  evil.  He  thinks  she  means 
to  marry  Cynthia  to  Sir  Augustus.  And  really  I 
don't  know  that  she  does  not. 

Laura,  as  befits  her  unimaginative  nature,  has 
the  greatest  possible  respect  for  this  world's 
goods ;  a  "comfortable  establishment,"  massive 
diamonds  in  obtrusively  solid  setting,  powdered 
footmen,  and  carriage  horses,  with  bearing  reins 
stupidly,  cruelly  tightened,  are  all  things  for 
which,  in  her  opinion,  to  give  thanks  kneeling 
in  church.  The  crowned  peacock  crests  poised 
upon  the  Pampesford-Royal  gates,  and  let  into 
every  available  stretch  of  bricks  and  mortar — Sir 
Augustus  has  shown  us  photographs  of  Pampes- 
ford-Royal— would  not  bore  her  or  have  any- 
thing of  the  ridiculous  about  them  to  her  eyes. 
Cynthia  is  her  niece,  and  her  pretty-well  penni- 
less niece,  and  I  am  by  no  means  sure  that,  from 
Laura's  standpoint,  the  marriage  is  not  only  de- 
sirable, but  supremely  advantageous.  If  Cynthia 
were  of  Laura's  fibre,  it  might  not  be  wholly  dis- 
astrous, but  Cynthia,  as  women  are  apt  to  do 
more  or  less,  inherits  her  father's  temperament, 
and  to  Colonel  Leagrave  loaves  and  fishes  never 
counted  for  much.     I  don't  know  what  to  do. 


The  Etching-ham  Letters 

o 

The  fact  that  Harry  is  my  brother  both  drives 
me  on  and  holds  me  back.  Harry  is  a  poor  man, 
and  to  marry  Harry  would  be,  in  the  judgment 
of  the  vulgar  world  and  all  who  serve  Mammon, 
a  poor  marriage.  And  that  thought  restrains  me 
when  I  feel  I  must  go  to  this  motherless  Cynthia 
and  tell  her  that  she  had  better  fling  her  life  into 
the  gutter  than  marry  some  one  for  whom  she 
does  not  care.  But  then  in  the  case  of  such  an 
unsophisticated  child  it  seems  criminal  to  stand 
by  and  let  so  mercenary  a  marriage  come  to  pass. 
If  Harry  were  not  in  the  running,  or  were  I 
wholly  sure  than  Cynthia  is  one  of  those  to  whom 
the  things  which  money-bags  cannot  pay  for  are 
the  worth-having  things,  I  would  make  over  my 
opinion  to  her  forthwith ;  but  as  it  is,  I  don't 
know  about  bringing  pressure  to  bear?  She  is 
open  to  influence,  readier  to  succumb  than  to 
oppose,  and  my  words  possibly  might  carry  un- 
due weight.    Do  please  tell  me  what  you  think. 

I  unfolded  the  story  of  my  own  encounters 
with  Sir  Augustus  to  Harry.  I  thought  that  the 
present  turn  of  affairs  demanded  that  I  should. 
At  first  he  laughed  loudly,  and  then,  poor  fellow, 
he  slid  back  into  gloom,  and  said  in  doleful  ac- 
cents, "The  ass  evidently  means  to  marry." 

Sir  Augustus  at  present  "waits"  upon  us  (no 
other  word  seems  to  fit  the  grandiloquent  pro- 
ceeding) with  the  superfluous  regularity  of  Gen- 
eral Lcitc  when,  with  his  suite,  he  came  dailv  to 
ask  the  Duke  of  Wellington  how  he  had  passed 
the  night,  even  when  the  Duke's  night  had  been 

122 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

passed  in  the  trenches.  And  he  is  received  by 
Laura  with  a  far  fuller  measure  of  cordiality  than 
the  politeness  of  the  Spanish  Commander-in- 
Chief  drew  from  the  Duke. 

When  I  attempt  to  sound  her  as  to  the  object  of 
the  surplus  visitations,  she  looks  mysterious  and 
rings  the  bell  for  Blake,  with  some  such  excuse 
as  that  she  needs  eau  de  Cologne,  or  wishes  to 
change  her  shoes.  You  will  probably  think  that 
it  is  impossible  for  Cynthia  to  accept  Sir  Augus- 
tus, as  you  only  know  him  as  a  pompous,  mid- 
dle-aged (or  to  quote  Mrs.  Vivian)  medieval 
bore ;  but  I  don't  know  that  Cynthia  is  not  young 
enough  and  undeveloped  enough,  morally  and 
mentally,  to  marry,  at  Laura's  bidding,  almost 
anybody.  She  thinks  Sir  Augustus  "very  good 
natured."  She  thinks  Harry  "very  good 
natured,"  too.  She  is  right,  but  it  is  not  good 
nature  that  forces  Sir  Augustus,  puffing  and 
panting,  up  these  stairs  daily,  nor  is  it  good 
nature,  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  word,  that 
sends  Harry  from  his  soup  to  the  front  door  if, 
in  answer  to  Cynthia's  inquiries  at  dinner-time, 
Turnbull  reluctantly  admits  that  Trelawney  was 
seen  to  go  up  the  area  steps,  but  not  to  come 
down  them  again.  I  witnessed  another  instance 
of  Harry's  imperturbable  good  nature  yesterday. 
Instead  of  keeping  an  appointment  at  his  club, 
he  held  the  feathered  forms  of  Blair  and  AthoU 
whilst  Cynthia,  armed  with  gilded  scissors  in  the 
form  of  a  stork,  shortened  the  claws  of  the  be- 
loved birds. 

123 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Now  I  have  your  letter.  Thank  you  for  it  and 
for  the  book.  You  may  disclaim  all  knowledge 
of  European  politics,  but  the  science  of  convey- 
ing your  opinion  upon  the  politics  of  others 
seems,  my  dear  Richard,  within  your  ken.  From 
the  comments  accompanying  the  extracts  from 
Charles's  address,  I  don't  somehow  fancy  that 
the  balance  of  parties  is  hkely  to  be  changed  by 
our  brother's  Dampshire  exploits. 

I  wonder  if  our  nineteenth-century  handicraft 
monstrosities  will  be  the  curios  of  the  twenty- 
second  century?  Time  can  hardly  succeed  in 
making  Kidderminster  carpets  and  early  Victo- 
rian furniture  beautiful,  but  Time  may  make 
them  quaint.  Even  the  portrait  of  a  provincial 
mayor,  when  300  years  have  passed  over  its 
head,  may  come  to  have  a  certain  cachet.  I 
don't  think  that  some  of  our  old  Etchinghams  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  grim  Sir  Nicholas  with 
his  thumb  in  his  magnificent  chain  for  example, 
can  have  beautified  the  walls  when  first  hung. 

Perhaps  at  last  will  be  discovered  the  laws  that 
govern  artistic  achievement,  and  the  conditions 
that  help  or  hinder  the  sowing,  the  flowering, 
and  the  seed-time  of  art.  What  a  thing  it  would 
be  if  research  enabled  the  chemists  to  furnish  the 
London  County  Council  with  soil  and  even 
climate,  congenial  to  the  aesthetic  growth.  Can 
soil  influence  the  choice  of  medium?  Pastel 
should  flourish  on  chalk,  water-colour  on  sand 
or  gravel,  and  oil  on  clay,  talking  nonsense,  it 
seems  to  me. 

124 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Minnie,  guided  by  Mrs.  Potters  (of  whom 
Harry  irreverently  speaks  as  Mrs.  Potters's  Bar), 
addressed  a  Clayshott  mothers'  meeting,  I  hear, 
and  spoke  to  the  "mothers,"  a  body  of  substan- 
tial and  comfortable  women,  of  the  abomination 
of  female  out-of-door  labour.  The  worthy 
mothers  were  greatly  incensed,  and  met  the  ex- 
pression of  Minnie's  sympathy  for  women  field- 
workers  as  would  Laura,  did  Mrs.  Vivian  in- 
clude her  when  commiserating  the  hardships  of 
washerwomen. 

Stephen  does  not  forget,  if  you  do,  his  wish 
to  visit  Tolcarne.  He  is  quite  pleasant,  and  I 
think  that  he  and  Minnie  would  amuse  one  an- 
other if  under  your  roof  at  one  and  the  same 
time.  But  that  is  your  afifair,  not  mine.  Stephen 
thinks  to  glean  some  West  country-folk  lore 
from  Mr.  FoUett,  some  of  the  legends  that  dub 
Sir  Francis  Drake  with  a  wizardry  akin  to  that 
with  which  the  Italian  peasants  endowed  Virgil. 
From  me  he  can  get  nothing  but  the  well-known 
superstition  that  Sir  Francis  leads  the  Wild  Hunt 
over  Dartmoor,  and  rises  to  join  in  the  revels  at 
the  beating  at  Buckland  Abbey  of  the  drum  he 
carried  round  the  world.  With  this  old  epitaph 
Stephen's  monograph  is  to  close  : — 

"Where  Drake  first  found,  there  last  he  lost  his  name, 
And  for  a  tomb  left  nothing  but  his  fame, 
His  body's  buried  under  some  great  wave, 
The  sea  that  was  his  glory  is  his  grave." 

Now  Alice   Newton   has   fallen   ill,   and   your 
125 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

friend  Mr.  Shipley  is  unhappy  about  her.  Col- 
onel Newton  so  far  has  not  realized  that  wailing 
robes  with  reason  might  be  donned.  I  felt  sure 
that  she  would  collapse.  She  was  always  a  fugi- 
tive creature,  and  of  late  she  has  looked  intangi- 
ble as  one  of  Maeterlinck's  dream-women.  She 
said  to  me  the  other  day,  "You  see,  one  can  be 
dead  and  be  still  going  about  and  people  don't 
know  that  one  is  dead.  That  is  the  curious  part 
of  it."  Her  old  nurse,  who  was  the  child's  nurse 
too,  appeared  when  I  went  to  see  Alice  yester- 
day, and,  though  I  tried  to  stop  her,  she  per- 
sisted, undeterred  by  Mr.  Shipley's  presence,  in 
telling  me  of  Alice's  misery  since  the  child  died. 
"Mrs.  Newton,  M'm,  she  would  come  wander- 
ing up  into  the  room  that  was  the  day-nursery, 
at  three  and  four  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and 
walk  up  and  down  and  cry  by  the  hour.  No 
health  could  stand  such  goings  on."  Mr.  Ship- 
ley is  devoted  to  his  sister,  and  I  am  very  sorry 
for  him.  When  you  come  to  London  you  must 
hold  out  the  hand  of  friendship  to  him.  He 
asks  for  Tolcarne  news  frequently. 

Would  you  welcome  a  copy  of  Willughby's 
Birds— "The  Ornithology  of  Francis  Willughby 
of  Middleton  in  the  County  of  Warvvick,  Esq." 
— the  text  in  English,  London,  1678?  Laura 
met  me  the  other  evening  on  the  doorstep  with 
the  book  under  my  arm.  I  saw  it  lying  in  a 
dim,  dusty  shop  to  which  I  repaired  in  search 
of  something  else,  and  1  had  not  the  heart  to 
leave  it.     Laura  hales  old  books,  looking  upon 

126 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

them  but  as  dust-catchers  and  germ-carriers. 
When  reigning  at  Tolcarne  she  put  John  Florio 
into  a  room  with  a  sulphur  candle,  to  my  in- 
tense indignation.  (Poor  John  Florio  to  be  dis- 
infected at  this  time  of  day.)  The  Willughby  is 
hardly  a  pocket-volume,  and  I  could  not  con- 
ceal it,  as,  to  save  an  argument,  I  would  have 
done.  "What  in  the  world  is  the  use  of  such  a 
book  to  you,  Elizabeth  ?"  Laura  inquired.  "I 
shall  give  it  to  Richard,"  I  said;  so  don't  turn 
me  into  a  liar  by  refusing  it,  -  The  Willughby 
will  be  happier  at  Tolcarne  than  in  Hans  Place. 

Publication  brings  strange  shelf-fellows,  I 
thought  as  I  glanced  at  the  books  in  our  book- 
case this  morning.  Laura's  Marie  Corelli,  Edna 
Lyall  and  then  Herrick,  and  Catullus  all  in  a 
row.  If  contrast  is  attractive,  Maeterlinck  and 
Dr.  Johnson,  cheek  by  jowl,  as  we  have  them 
here,  are  desirable.  (Dr.  Johnson :  "Sir,  you  are 
a  fool."  Maeterlinck :  "1  am  not  happy.  I  am 
not  happy.")  For  myself,  as  in  the  long  run  I 
prefer  a  chime  to  a  clash,  a  harmony  to  a  dis- 
cord, I  have  half  a  mind  to  carry  Maeterlinck  to 
Mr.  Vivian  presently.  Mr.  Vivian  (a  figure  of 
silence  not  of  speech,  to  quote  his  wife)  buys  a 
Burne-Jones  whenever  he  can  get  one.  When 
Burne-Jones  is  on  the  wall  Maeterlinck  should 
be  in  the  book-case.  Do  invent  a  conversation 
between  M.  Maeterlinck  and  Dr.  Johnson,  and 
mention  too  what  M.  Maeterlinck  would  say  to  a 
Hogarth,  and  Dr.  Johnson  to  a  Burne-Jones. 

Now  good-bye.    I  have  rather  written  out  my 

127 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

evil  temper  and  no  longer  feel  that  every  one  is 
trying  to  beat  the  record  of  his  or  her  past 
troublesomeness.  I  begin  to  reproach  myself 
also  for  my  denunciation  of  Laura.  However,  it 
shall  go  (there  is  nothing  like  a  remorse  for 
paring  down  ill-temper  to  reasonable  dimen- 
sions), and  please  don't  be  a  hundred  years  an- 
swering. I  am  impatient  to  hear  what  you  think 
about  the  Harry-Cynthia-Laura-Sir  Augustus 
affair.  I  am  rather  inclined  to  expect  the  worst 
— Cynthia  being  a  childish  creature,  used  to  au- 
thority, and  of  the  stuff  of  which  victims  are 
made,  whilst  Laura,  in  her  quiet  way,  is  ob- 
stinate as  the  Pope's  mule.  Sometimes  I  wish 
that  Harry  would  propose  to  Cynthia,  and  have 
done  with  it.  But  he  thinks  by  so  doing  he 
might  lose  the  little  he  has  got.  I  don't,  as  you 
see,  know  what  to  say  or  to  leave  unsaid,  and 
don't  agree  with  myself  for  five  minutes  con- 
secutively. I  shall  try  and  reduce  my  thoughts 
to  order  by  reading  your  little  old  book.  Laura 
dines  with  Mrs.  Carstairs  to-night.  Harry  is 
bidden  somewhere  whither  Mrs.  Vivian  is  con- 
veying Cynthia.  Sir  Augustus  is  decorating 
with  his  presence  a  Primrose  League  Entertain- 
ment, so  the  family  and  the  family's  adjunct  are 
happily  disposed  of,  and  I  shall  spend  the  even- 
ing with  Trelawney  and  "The  Voyage  of  Italy." 
Your  obedient  servant,  your  loving  sister, 

Elizabeth. 


128 


XVI. 

Sir  Richard  Etchingham  to  Miss  Elizabeth 
Etchingham. 

My  dear  Elizabeth, — You  shall  have  a 
short  and  prompt  answer  for  once.  Why  can't 
you  send  Gynthia  here  along-  with  Stephen  ?  It 
would  put  her  out  of  harm's  way  for  a  while  at 
any  rate,  and  give  you  time  and  occasions  to  test 
your  conjectures. 

This  is  sickening  stuff  about  poor  marriages. 
What  had  Maggie  and  I  before  we  married,  and 

what    had    we    not    afterwards? The.re — you 

know  there  are  some  things   I   cannot   put  on 
paper  even  to  you. 

Don't  be  worried  out  of  your  evening  sessions 
with  Harry,  whatever  you  do ;  and  be  firm.  The 
head  of  the  family  is  with  you  for  whatever  that 
office  is  worth  in  this  present  Kali  Yiig. 

Yours  ever, 

R.  E. 


129 


XVII. 

From  Lady  Etchinghani,  83  Hans  Place,  to  Sir 
Richard  Etchingham,  Tolcarnc. 

My  dear  Richard, — I  have  not  seen  your  let- 
ter, but  I  understand  from  Elizabeth  that  you 
have  kindly  invited  Cynthia  to  Tolcarne  for 
Whitsuntide. 

I  am  sure  that  Cynthia  would  be  very  pleased 
to  be  with  Margaret,  but  I  am  afraid  that  I  do 
not  quite  see  how  it  can  be  managed  just  at 
present.  Elizabeth,  who  has  been  very  much 
taken  up  with  Mrs.  Newton  lately,  proposes,  I 
now  suddenly  hear,  to  start  off  with  her  to  the 
sea  for  i.  few  days  next  week.  You  know  what 
Elizabeth  is  when  she  takes  people  up  violently, 
and  how  impulsive.  Mr.  Shipley,  Mrs.  New- 
ton's brother,  called  last  evening  to  say  that  the 
doctors  suggest  change  of  air  for  Mrs.  Newton, 
whose  health  has  been,  I  believe,  very  unsatis- 
factory lately  from  insomnia  and  nervous  ex- 
haustion, and  would  Elizabeth  be  persuaded  to 
go  too,  as  his  sister  had  an  invalid's  fancy  to 
have  Elizabeth  with  her.  I  do  not  myself  see 
the  need,  as  if  Mrs.  Newton  docs  not  consider 
her  husband  sufficient  escort,  there  is  a  sister- 
in-law — a  Mrs.  Ware — quite  willing  to  be  of  use 
and  accustomed  to  illness.    I  remember  her  tell- 

130 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

ing  me  the  first  time  I  met  her  that  Mr.  Ware 
had  been  completely  paralysed  for  five  years  be- 
fore he  died.  Also,  as  I  told  Elizabeth,  I  think  it 
quite  possible  that  Mr.  Shipley  just  suggested 
her  accompanying  Mrs.  Newton,  thinking  she 
might  enjoy  the  trip.  She  often  speaks  of  her 
dislike  of  London,  which  is,  I  think,  a  mistake. 
Mrs.  Newton,  I  fear,  is  on  the  verge  of  melan- 
cholia, and  would  really  be  best  left  with  her 
husband,  who  no  doubt  understands  her  tem- 
perament. 

If  Elizabeth  is  to  be  away  for  several  days  with 
her  friend,  I  feel  quite  sure  that  Cynthia  would 
not  consent  to  leave  me  wholly  alone,  much  as 
I  should  like  her  to  have  the  pleasure  of  a  visit 
to  Tolcarne.  My  eyes  have  troubled  me  a  good 
deal  lately,  and  I  have  rheumatic  gout  in  my 
hands  (from  weakness.  Dr.  Bowles  says),  and  to 
sit  alone,  unoccupied,  though  I  am  willing  to 
undergo  it  if  Elizabeth  thinks  it  will  amuse  her 
to  be  with  Mrs.  Newton,  is  not,  I  know,  what 
others  would  choose  for  me.  I  really  quite  think 
also  that  for  Cynthia's  own  sake  it  is  better  for 
her  to  remain  quietly  at  home  till  the  weather  is 
more  settled.  You  have  had  heavy  rains  I  hear 
from  Mrs.  Follitt,  and  dear  Tolcarne,  of  course, 
is  damp.  I  always  considered  the  roof  faulty. 
Hoping  you  have  had  no  recurrence  of  your  old 
attacks,  and  with  love  to  Margaret  and  yourself, 
Believe  me, 

Affectionately  yours, 

Laura  F.  Etchingham. 

131 


XVIII. 

From  Miss  Elisabeth  Etchingham  to  Sir  Richard 
Etchingham. 

Dearest  Dickory, — Thanks  very  much  for 
your  letter.  It  was  just  exactly  what  I  wanted, 
and  it  has  stiffened  me.  Cynthia  would  be  per- 
fectly content  at  Tolcarne  with  Margaret  and 
Stephen,  and  he  and  she  can  travel  down  to- 
gether. I  will  propose  it  at  once,  and  I  should 
hardly  think  that  Laura's  hardworked  team  of 
phantom  lions  could  be  trotted  out  to  block  this 
path. 

I  am  summoned  to  the  drawing-room,  and 
rumour  reports  Mr.  Shipley's  arrival  with  a  mes- 
sage from  Alice.    So  here  endeth  this  epistle. 

Yours, 

Elizabeth. 

P.S. — Send  me  a  supplementary  letter  soon, 
and  in  it  wrap  up  a  recipe  for  patience  and  a 
right  judgment  in  all  things. 


132 


XIX. 

Sir  Richard  Etchingham   to   Miss   Elisabeth 
Etchingham. 

My  dear  Elizabeth, — Let  a  pleasant  thing 
come  first.  I  shall  be  delighted  to  have  Willugh- 
by's  Birds  ;  the  rather  that  I  had  almost  forgotten 
what  home  birds  are  like.  Did  I  ever  tell  you 
that  among  the  great  Akbar's  accomplishments 
was  a  lively  interest  in  the  natural  history  of 
Hindustan?  The  work  of  encyclopaedic  Indian 
statistics  (or  as  near  statistics  as  Asiatic  scribes 
could  get)  compiled  under  his  charge  includes 
elaborate  figures  of  Indian  plants.  I  wish  the 
ingenious  Mr.  Traill  would  add  a  dialogue  be- 
tween Elizabeth  and  Akbar,  wherever  they 
ought  to  be,  to  his  "New  Lucian."  Akbar  de- 
serves to  be  in  the  eagle's  eye  in  the  sphere  of 
Jupiter,  whether  Dante's  principles  could  make 
room  for  him  there  or  not.  I  am  not  so  sure 
about  Elizabeth.  Akbar  could  have  taught  her 
not  to  scamp  the  supplies  of  stores  and  ammuni- 
tion to  her  fleet.  If  ever  the  Government  of 
India  gets  a  piping  time  of  peace  before  the  com- 
ing of  the  Cocqcigrues,  there  ought  to  be  an 
adequate  life  of  Akbar  produced  by  a  combina- 
tion of  European  and  Indian  scholarship.     He 

133 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

wanted,  like  Frederick  II.  some  centuries  earlier, 
to  do  more  than  was  possible  for  any  one  man, 
including  the  foundation  of  a  universal  religion. 
But  he  was  a  magnificently  ambitious  prince, 
and  his  peccadillos  were  trifling  as  the  sins  of 
Eastern  despots  go.  There  should  also  be  a 
great  publication  of  his  architecture  at  Fateh- 
pur-Sikri,  that  city  of  palaces  which  stands  to 
this  day  deserted,  but  not  ruined.  It  is  more  im- 
pressive in  some  ways  than  any  of  the  show 
monuments  of  Delhi  or  Agra.  Some  pubHcation 
there  has  been,  but  with  the  curious  shyness  of 
official  publications,  almost  amounting  to  con- 
cealment. I  want  a  monumental  work,  more 
like  what  the  French  would  do  if  they  were  in 
our  place. 

The  British  public  does  not  appreciate  the 
"New  Lucian,"  I  fear,  perhaps  never  will.  Mr. 
Traill's  humour  is  too  subtle  for  the  general.  But 
there  will  always  be  a  select  number  to  delight  in 
it.  His  work,  if  it  is  not  so  brilliant  as  Landor's, 
is  free  from  Landor's  prejudices  and  crankiness, 
and  the  violent  disproportions  introduced  by 
them  into  Landor's  Imaginary  Conversations; 
and  sometimes  it  rises  to  a  note  of  historic 
tragedy,  as  in  the  dialogue  between  Alexander 
II.  and  Peter  the  Great.  If  you  ever  meet  with 
the  comments  of  the  Canaanitish  press  on  the 
Exodus — written  by  Traill  before  the  outbreak 
of  the  Russo-Turkish  war  in  1876 — grapple 
those  few  leaves  without  fail.  But  you  won't, 
for    it    has    become    one    of    the    really    scarce 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

pamphlets  of  our  time,  and  I  doubt  if  it  is  to  be 
had  for  money. 

Sir  Augustus's  proceedings  are  very  dark  to 
me.  There  is  nothing  impossible  in  a  vulgar 
ambitious  man  being  captivated  by  a  fresh  pretty 
face ;  and  yet  I  fancy  somehow  that  his  ambition 
is  more  calculating,  and  can  hardly  conceive  that 
ruling  passion  being  dethroned.  Watch,  I  say 
again,  and  keep  Harry  out  of  despondency  if 
you  can.  Cynthia  is  unformed,  and  may  change 
her  mind  once  and  again  before  she  fixes  it ;  I 
cherish  hopes  that  the  final  direction  may  be 
right. 

Stephen  Leagrave  has  settled  to  come  here 
next  week,  with  a  quite  neat  and  official  dis- 
quisition on  Secondary  Education  thrown  in. 
Charles  may  tackle  him  on  that  subject  if  he 
likes,  and  give  the  Clayshott  electors  the  benefit 
of  the  result.  It  will  be  about  as  useful  and  in- 
telligible to  them  as  the  other  matters  Charles 
is  committing  himself  to  in  his  address.  Here 
come  by  the  same  post  your  note,  and  a  gushing 
billet  from  Minnie,  omitting  to  specify  the  date 
of  arrival,  for  which  I  particularly  asked,  so  there 
will  most  likely  be  a  morning  of  telegraphing; 
and  a  letter  from  Laura,  who  is  verily  of  the 
tribe  of  the  Duzakhis,  if  odious  virtues  ever 
made  anyone  so ;  I  enclose  it  for  your  edification. 
You  see  she  is  too  many  for  us  as  regards  my 
little  plan  about  Cynthia.  She  carefully  mis- 
spells Mrs.  Follett's  name.  If  there  is  a  thing 
I  detest  it  is  misspelt  names. 

135 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

I  have  had  to  explain  to  several  people  that 
Wei-hai-wei  is  not  in  the  sphere  of  the  Indian 
Political  Department,  and  that  a  smoking  ac- 
quaintance with  cheroots  does  not  make  one  an 
authority  on  Manila.  But  my  comparative  study 
of  the  Parish  and  the  North  Indian  Village  is 
going  to  be  a  great  work. 

Your  loving  brother, 

Richard. 


136 


XX. 

From  Miss  Elisabeth  Etchingham,  83  Hans  Place, 
to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Tolcarne. 

Dearest  Dickory, — Cynthia  has  refused 
Harry,  Trelawney  is  lost,  and  Sir  Augustus  has 
gone  away  to  bury  a  relation.  If  Niobe  left  a 
recipe  for  preserving  furniture  from  mildew, 
please  send  it.  We  are  very  damp  here.  Had 
Trelawney  not  strayed,  there  might  now  be  no 
new  misadventure  to  report;  but  Trelawney  left 
his  family  on  Monday,  and  has  not  since  been 
seen  or  heard  of.     Wherefore  what  follows. 

This  not  being  the  first  time  that  Trelawney 
has  absented  himself,  Cynthia,  till  this  morning, 
buoyed  herself  up  with  hopes  of  his  return.  This 
morning,  however,  Blake,  with  her  race's  love 
for  harrowing,  went  to  Cynthia  with  a  chapter 
of  cat  accidents,  derived  from  the  milkman — 
kidnappings,  poisonings,  &c. — the  scene  of 
every  one  of  these  catastrophes  being  this  neigh- 
bourhood, the  time  the  present.  Cynthia  car- 
ried the  depressing  intelligence  about  with  some 
stoicism  for  an  hour  or  two,  and  then,  suddenly 
succumbing,  wept.  Harry,  like  you,  has  no 
armour  against  tears,  and  Cynthia  smiling  hav- 
ing of  late  disturbed  his  equanimity,  Cynthia 
weeping  was  altogether  too  much  for  the  poor 

137 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

fellow.  From  ofifering  consolation  and  seeking 
to  inspire  hope,  he  went  on  to  tell  the  story  of  his 
heart ;  and  presently  he  came  to  my  room,  look- 
ing sad  enough  and  white  enough  to  frighten  me. 
(Of  course,  before  he  spoke  my  thoughts  sug- 
gested a  telegram  with  bad  news  from  Tolcarne.' 
I  always  think  that  something  will  happen  to 
vou,  because  it  would  obliterate  me  if  it  did.) 
Harry,  blaming  and  banning  himself  the  while, 
then  begged  me  to  go  to  Cynthia,  who  was  cry- 
ing, he  said,  in  the  drawing-room,  and  whom 
he  had  frightened,  "clumsy  boor"  that  he  was. 

Until  I  beheld  Cynthia  I  felt  almost  angry 
with  her  as  the  cause  of  Harry's  distress ;  but  no 
sooner  had  I  seen  the  creature's  scared,  woebe- 
gone aspect  than  I  found  myself  commiserating 
her  almost  as  much  as  I  commiserated  Harry. 
She  clung  to  me,  weeping,  and  said,  as  well  as 
she  could  for  her  tears,  that  she  was  very  hor- 
rid, she  knew ;  that  we  should  all  hate  her ;  that 
Major  Etchingham  was  very  kind,  but — but  she 
did  not  want  to  be  married.  With  this  pretty, 
absurdly  pathetic-looking  child  clinging  to  me 
as  if  I  were  a  rock  of  defence,  my  sympathies 
were  equally  divided ;  and,  while  I  was  doing  my 
best  to  quiet  and  reassure  her,  in  walked  Laura 
— come  to  see  if  the  blinds  were  drawn  down, 
lest  the  sun  should  injure  the  furniture. 

(It  was  long  since  proved  to  me  that  the  Fates 
were  humourists.  Of  late  I  have  suspected  that 
these  ladies  are  not  only  humourists,  but  practi- 
cal jokers.) 

138 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

When  Cynthia  looked  up  and  saw  Laura  she 
instantly  took  to  flight,  and  left  me  to  tackle  our 
stepmother  single-handed;  and  Laura  straight- 
way, in  frigid  tones,  inquired  if  it  would  be  an 
impertinence  to  ask  the  cause  of  Cynthia's  emo- 
tion. "Of  course,  I  have  no  wish  to  force  any- 
one's confidence,  or  to  come  between  you  and 
my  niece."  As  Cynthia  is  not  only  Laura's  niece, 
but  her  ward,  and  as  Harry  is  my  brother,  I 
considered  Laura  entitled  to  an  explanation.  In 
another  very  few  minutes  I  wished  that  my  tem- 
per were  sweeter ;  and  in  still  another  very  few 
minutes  I  wished  my  dc  profundis  wish — that 
you  were  present.  Laura  can  be  perfectly  de- 
testable ;  and  I  am  not  one  of  those  to  whom  the 
inheritance  of  the  earth  is  promised.  At  this 
juncture  whom  should  Turnbull,  suddenly  jerk- 
ing open  the  door,  announce  but  Airs.  Vivian, 
who  flitted  in  with  her  charming  smile  and  air 
of  graceful  well-being. 

**Oh,  Lady  Etchingham,  I  did  not  know  that 
you  ever  appeared  upon  the  scene  so  early,"  was 
the  propitious  beginning.  "I  came  to  see  Eliza- 
beth about "  (the  boarding  out  of  London 

children  at  Vivian-End).  It  was  as  if  the  Mother 
of  Mischief  were  prompting  Mrs.  Vivian's  chat- 
ter. In  response  to  Laura's  statement  that  how- 
ever far  from  well  she  might  feel  she  considered 
it  her  duty  to  take  her  place  in  the  house,  Mrs. 
Vivian  airily  recommended  her  to  try  Christian 
Science  for  her  ailments.  "I  think  you  might 
like  it  very  much.     Don't  you  think,  Elizabeth, 

139 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

that  Lady  Etchingham  might  be  very  much 
amused  by  Christian  Science?  It's  not  half  so 
nasty  as  the  Salisbury  beef  cure  nor  so  danger- 
ous as  German  baths.  Lady  Clementine  Mure 
says  it's  done  wonders  for  her,  and  she  means 
to  stick  to  it,  and  not  try  the  new  fresh  air  treat- 
ment. Not  that  Lady  Clementine  had  anything 
but  maladc  iinaginaireism  the  matter,  and  as 
Hugo  Ennismore  says  of  Christian  Science, 
imagination  cures  what  imagination  creates.  (I 
think  you  would  like  Hugo  Ennismore,  Eliza- 
beth; he  is  thought  clever.)  Then  there  was 
Tessy  Graham-Gordon,  who  lay  upon  her  back 
for  two  years  and  would  not  see  a  soul,  and  now 
she  cycles  twenty  miles  a  day  and  takes  fencing 
lessons.  I  always  said  if  that  poor  unfortunate 
husband  of  hers,  who  is  so  weak  as  to  be  almost 
wanting,  had  only  had  the  strength  of  mind  to 
set  the  house  on  fire  it  would  have  got  her  off 
her  sofa  before.  But  Christian  Science  did 
equally  well,  and  made  far  less  mess  than  del- 
uges of  water  and  flames  and  firemen's  dreadful 
heavy  boots  trampling  over  everything.  Do  give 
it  a  trial.  It  is  sure  to  do  your  nerves  good  if  it 
does  not  drive  you  mad." 

"Dr.  Bowles  considers  that  my  nerves  have 
stood  the  strain  to  which  they  have  been  sub- 
jected peculiarly  well,"  Laura  answered,  in  her 
North  Pole  voice.  After  half  an  hour  of  this  and 
other  equally  pacific  matter,  it  seemed  prudent 
to  leave  the  room  when  Mrs.  Vivian  did ;  and 
having  seen  her  ofif  the  premises  I  sought  out 

140 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Harry,  whose  dejected  looks  haunted  me.  I  hope 
I  succeeded  at  last  in  convincing  him  that 
Cynthia's  health  and  happiness  are  not  perma- 
nently blasted  by  an  offer  of  marriage  from  a 
good  man.  He  was  very  grateful  for  nothing, 
but  very  sad.  "Send  somebody  out  to  look  for 
that  brute  of  a  cat :  it  is  all  she  cares  for,"  were 
his  final  words.  I  dared  to  say  that  perhaps  it 
was  not  all  that  she  would  ever  care  for,  and 
poor  Harry  patted  me  on  the  head  and  departed 
with  a  sigh.  (What  I  write  is,  as  usual,  for  you 
only ;  for  you  who,  in  the  matter  of  confidences, 
are  a  ctd-dc-sac.) 

The  disquieting  Cynthia  I  think  had  best  take 
advantage  now  of  Mrs.  Gainsworthy's  invitation, 
and  stay  at  Oxbridge  till  we  go  north.  As  to 
that  letter  of  Laura's  which  you  return,  I  believe 
pique  prompted  it.  Why  invite  Cynthia  to  Tol- 
carne  and  not  herself?  Between  you  and  me  it  is 
safe  to  ask  her.  She  wishes  to  be  asked,  but 
she  does  not  wish  to  go.  I  am  very  sorry  that 
my  possible  absence  next  week  afforded  an  ex- 
cuse for  keeping  Cynthia  here  to  play  compan- 
ion. But  if  Alice  Newton  wished  for  me  I  would 
not  refuse.  Long  ago,  soon  after  she  was  mar- 
ried, when  once  she  was  very  low  and  wretched, 
she  made  me  promise  that  I  would  always  be- 
friend her  if  I  could.  I  can  be  of  no  real  use, 
but  for  a  greater  thing  than  a  whim  of  Laura's 
I  am  not  disposed  to  say  "No"  to  Alice,  who  is 
unhappy  and  ill.  Yes,  would  not  Mrs.  Ware, 
who  related  every  particular  of  her  husband's 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

fatal  illness  on  the  occasion  of  her  first  meeting 
with  Laura,  be  a  congenial  companion  to  some 
one  who  is  bruised?  As  it  turns  out,  Alice  is  too 
ill  to  go  anywhere.  I  visited  her  this  morning  and 
found  Colonel  Newton  fussing  and  fuming,  and 
not  in  the  least  amused  by  a  charge  in  a  solici- 
tor's bill — "rectifying  error  caused  by  our  own 
carelessness,  13^.  4c?." 

After  the  commotion  of  the  day  I  went  in 
search  of  a  sedative  to  St.  Paul's  Cathedral. 
Evensong  and  anthem,  as  every  afternoon  of  the 
week  given  there,  are  the  best  nepenthe  I  have 
yet  discovered  in  this  vast  kingdom  of  London. 
And  then  at  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  we  do  not  see 
half  the  people  we  know  crowned  with  their  best 
bonnets,  and  best  bonnets  and  the  Confession 
never  somehow  seem  to  agree.  (Mrs.  Vivian 
says  that  while  she  can  imagine  the  Apostle 
Peter  admitting  a  beggar  to  the  precincts  of 
Heaven,  "I  can't  quite  see  him  letting  in  Lady 
Etchingham  in  her  Sunday  get-up.")  But  the 
patterning  of  St.  Paul's  is  disturbing.  There  is 
rest  and  relief  to  my  eyes  after  the  plague  of  pat- 
terns from  which  we  sufifer  in  the  cold,  white 
bareness,  unfretted  by  device  or  design,  and  I 
trust  that  this  superfluous  patterning  will  not 
encroach  very  far.  For  an  understanding  of  the 
value  of  blank  spaces,  we  look,  as  a  rule,  in  vain 
to  the  art  of  the  West.  It  is  realised  in  Japanese 
art.  Also  where  patterns  are,  there  the  full  play 
of  light  and  shade  is  not ;  and  to  turn  from  St. 
Paul's  Cathedral  and  from  the  art  of  Japan  to 

142 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

dwelling-house  decoration,  the  shadow  of  flow- 
ering bough  or  foliage  thrown  upon  homely 
whitewash  is  beautiful,  but  throw  the  shadow 
upon  a  patterned  surface,  and  however  fine  the 
fabric,  the  beauty  of  the  shadow  line  is  lost. 
Do  you  go  with  me  in  preferring  whitewash  to 
the  meaningless  scrawls  and  imitation  anythings 
with  which  walls  are  often  hung? 

I  heard  from  our  cousin,  Arthur  Etchingham, 
by  the  last  mail.  He  is  very  hot  and  rather 
depressed,  poor  man.  The  Bombay  winds  have 
been  all  wrong,  and  the  winds  they  have  a  right 
to  expect  to  come  ofif  the  sea  have  never  come — 
a  condition  of  things  bad  for  man,  beast,  and 
temper,  he  says.  The  prayer  for  the  plague  has 
been  used,  he  tells  me,  in  the  Bombay  churches 
for  the  last  six  months.  'Tf  you  look  at  it  you 
will  see  how  futile  it  sounds  on  an  occasion  like 
this,  and  like  an  attempt  to  appease  one  of  the 
hundred-armed  Hindoo  avenging  deities.  Don't 
you  think  that  parsons  should  adapt  themselves 
more  to  the  times?"  The  letter  breathes  carbolic, 
and  Arthur  is  homesick,  I  fear.  He  speaks  of 
the  parks  and  of  the  flower-beds  "which  are  such 
feasts  for  Indian  eyes  after  years  in  this  coun- 
try." If  I  had  my  wishing-carpet,  I  would  spirit 
Arthur  back.  "Tell  Richard  to  bring  you  and 
Margaret  out  for  the  next  cold  weather,"  he 
says.  "Oh,  that  'twere  possible"  after  being 
pent  up  here  with  poor  Laura  to  go  ever  so  far 
away.     I  wonder  if  you  too  sometimes  feel  an 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

acute  desire  to  hurry  to  the  further  side  of  space 
and  see  nothing  for  a  hundred  years  that  you 
have  yet  set  eyes  on? 

Mr,  Traill  would  not,  I  imagine,  covet  the 
British  public's  appreciation  of  "The  New 
Lucian."  When  I  tried  Laura  with  "The  New 
Lucian,"  she  said,  "Where  is  the  joke?  Is  it 
meant  to  be  humorous?"  To  continue  my  re- 
searches into  the  recesses  of  the  human  mind 
I  then  plied  her  with  a  translated  extract  from 
"The  Sale  of  the  Philosophers,"  but  when  she 
interrupted  the  reading  to  suggest  gravely  that 
probably  the  chronic  weeping  of  Heraclitus 
arose  from  inflammation  of  the  tear-duct — she 
had  suffered  from  it  herself,  and  it  was  very 
troublesome  and  difficult  to  cure — I  thought  we 
had  gone  far  enough. 

Let  me  hear  the  tale  of  Charles's  and  Minnie's 
visit.  The  weather  will,  I  hope,  permit  of  the 
airing  of  theories  out  of  doors.  To  be  shut  up 
with  adverse  opinions  makes  a  long  day.  Has 
Minnie,  as  she  threatened,  asked  your  leave  to 
dedicate  her  new  novel  to  you?  She  says  that 
your  encouragement  has  been  such  a  great  help 
to  her  in  her  writing.  The  title  of  the  novel,  on 
the  dedication  page  of  which  she  proposes  to 
print  your  name,  is  "A  Tribute  of  Tears."  When 
she  told  me  that  you  had  encouraged  her  to 
write,  I  felt  disposed  to  say,  "Richard  is  too  wise 
to  encourage  a  woman  to  do  anything."  In 
Minnie's  absence  and  by  her  leave,  I  repair 
rather  often  to  Lower  Berkeley  Street  and  sit  in 

144 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

the  nursery  with  the  small  boys.  And  here  is 
Dicky's  description  of  his  first  flash  of  lightning 
and  first  thunder  clap :  "I  saw  an  angel  go  into 
Heaven  and  bang  the  door  after  it."  (Mrs. 
Vivian  says,  "The  child  never  said  anything  of 
the  sort.  It's  just  one  of  Minnie's  second  rate 
literary  ideas.") 

It  is  very,  very  late.    'The  time  of  night  when 
Troy  was  set  on  fire,"  and  I  am  cold  and  tired. 
So  good-bye  for  now. 
Your  loving  sister, 

St.  Elizabeth  (not  of  Hungary,  not 
of  Portugal,  but  of  Hans  Place). 
Not  your  saint,  your  sinner. 

Thursday  ■morning. — I  open  my  letter  to  tell 
you  that  Trelawney  has  just  sauntered  in  with 
an  air  of  perfect  unconcern.  It  was  Turnbull, 
not  Harry,  alas,  who  opened  the  door  to  him. 


145 


XXL 

From  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Tolcarne,  to  Miss 
Elizabeth  Etchingham. 

Dear  and  much  tried  Lady  Sister, — She 
is  a  little  goose ;  little,  because  her  age  gives  her 
the  privilege  of  that  mild  and  endearing  diminu- 
tive ;  if  she  were  five  years  older  she  would  be  a 
great  goose.  If  she  likes  no  one  else  better — 
and  I  see  nothing  to  show  that  she  does — it  may 
come  right  yet,  with  patience  and  leaving  alone. 
Acting  on  your  hint,  I  have  sent  an  invitation  in 
due  form  to  Laura.  If  she  accepts,  I  must  in- 
vent some  new  form  of  the  old  Eton  "Friday 
fever,"  when  Friday  was  the  heavy  day  of  the 
week,  with  every  one  from  sixth  form  to  lower 
division  {i.e.  of  fifth  form)  doing  the  same 
seventy  lines  of  Horace :  and  there  was  some- 
thing in  that  old  fashion  of  taking  our  classics  in 
good  lumps,  as  I  think  I  said  on  some  occasion 
a  while  ago.  But,  as  you  wisely  observe,  Laura 
will  not  accept.  I  should  like  to  see  her  try 
"Christian  Science,"  of  which  the  Christianity  is 
even  more  obscure  to  me  than  the  science.  I 
understand  it  to  consist  in  believing  very  hard 
that  there  is  nothing  the  matter  with  you;  and 
when  there  is  nothing  tlic  matter,  as  is  often  the 

146 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

case  with  people  who  have  nothing  else  to  do,  I 
do  not  doubt  it  may  be  an  excellent  way. 

Also  part  of  their  scheme  is  to  believe  that 
matter  is  nothing,  a  doctrine  of  which  the  Chris- 
tian Scientists  appear  to  suppose  themselves  the 
first  inventors — they  are  only  some  few  thou- 
sand years  late.  This  may  seem,  if  it  could 
prove  anything  for  their  purpose,  to  prove  too 
much.  For  if  your  body  is  nothing  real,  then 
health  and  sickness  are  alike  illusions,  and  an 
ache  more  or  less  in  your  tooth  or  your  stomach 
is  merely  indifferent,  and  it  is  not  worth  while 
to  be  well  even  if  it  is  to  cost  you  no  more  than 
the  pains  of  thinking  so.  And  so  forth  in  an 
ever-increasing  tangle  of  absurd  consequences, 
if  you  begin  to  converse  with  such  folk  accord- 
ing to  the  folly  they  have  confounded  with  a  lit- 
tle bad  science  and  a  little  even  worse  philoso- 
phy. Speculation  about  the  remote  or  ultimate 
nature  of  things  really  makes  no  difference  at  all 
to  actual  experience.  Stones,  and  my  head, 
and  gravity,  may  be  all  illusions  in  some  sense. 
All  the  same,  a  man  who  does  not  desire  the 
illusion  of  breaking  his  head  will  keep  up  the 
illusion  of  not  falling  on  stones.  But  Lord!  to 
think  of  the  patronising  contempt  the  smallest 
Yogi  would  pour  on  these  pale,  far-off  imita- 
tions of  the  old,  old  Eastern  tricks !  And  of  our 
bishops  confronting  Shiva  with  their  polite  and 
reasonable  Anglican  prayers !  The  doctors 
seem  to  have  all  their  work  to  do  to  stand  up 
to  him. 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

Our  enlightened  brother  Charles  and  Stephen 
Leagrave  are  dosing  me  with  the  latest  wisdom 
of  the  West.  The  very  night  of  their  arrival 
Charles  went  off  on  the  iniquity  of  voluntary 
schools  (there  being  no  Board  school  at  Clay- 
shott,  and  not  the  least  demand  for  one),  and 
Stephen  gave  us  a  lecture  of  an  hour  and  a  half 
on  Secondary  Education.  Margaret  nobly  came 
to  the  rescue  by  insisting  that  the  whole  Edu- 
cation Department  and  all  the  electors  of  the 
Clayshott  division  should  not  deprive  her  of  her 
revenge  on  me  at  piquet.  We  find  it  a  fasci- 
nating game :  it  seems  more  human  than  whist. 
I  could  never  rise  to  the  height  of  the  men  who 
can  play  a  good  hand  at  whist  in  the  Red  Sea, 
with  a  following  breeze  that  makes  a  dead  calm 
on  the  ship,  and  the  thermometer  steady 
at  90°.  When  I  say  more  human,  I  mean  that 
one  gets  a  more  faithful  image  of  life  in  the 
alternation  of  elder  and  younger  hand,  in  the 
power  of  the  lead  to  dominate  the  adversary's 
cards,  and  in  the  chance  of  taking  the  tide  at  the 
flood  and  making  one's  fortune  by  a  judicious 
discard.  I  believe,  by  the  book,  in  very  bold 
discarding;  our  practice,  I  suspect,  would  be 
considered  feeble  and  pottering  by  good  players. 
Then  piquet  is  adventurous,  as  whist  is  not,  and 
as  life  can  be  in  the  East  at  any  rate,  and  used 
to  be  before  John  Company  came  sweeping  and 
garnishing  and  stickling,  Mrs.  Battle's  way,  for 
a  clean  hearth  and  the  rigour  of  the  game. 
What  is  there  in  whist  to  come  near  the  emotion 

148 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

of  a  repique,  or  the  fearful  joys  of  manoeuvring 
to  save  a  capot?  On  the  subject  of  whitewash 
I  partly  sympathise  with  you ;  but  I  have  had  a 
dose  of  orthodox  aesthetics  too,  and  am  crushed. 
Leagrave  is  what  they  call  a  good  fellow,  but 
I  fail  to  get  any  satisfaction  from  him.  He  is 
educated :  doth  he  not  serve  My  Lords  who 
educate  us?  and  they  can  pick  and  choose  their 
servants  among  the  best  University  men.  He  is 
trained  and  able ;  he  can  write  a  neat  and  per- 
spicuous minute.  He  is  always  ready  when 
wanted,  never  at  a  loss  for  something  to  say, 
and  what  he  says  is  mostly  appropriate  and 
never  absurd ;  good-tempered,  an  easy  com- 
panion, altogether  a  desirable  and  safe  member 
of  a  party  or  an  excursion ;  active  enough  too, 
short  of  competing  with  younger  men.  I  be- 
lieve he  has  done  some  respectable  mountaineer- 
ing within  the  last  few  seasons.  And  yet  I  find 
myself  asking,  Where  is  the  real  man?  or  even, 
Is  there  any  real  man?  There  is  something  he 
wants ;  perhaps,  morally  and  figuratively  speak- 
ing, it  is  a  good  shaking.  If,  now,  he  had  been 
sent  to  hunt  dacoits  in  Burma  instead  of  analys- 
ing school  returns,  or  whatever  else  he  does  in 
Whitehall,  he  might  have  grown  in  some  direc- 
tions. Or  if  it  should  occur  to  a  young  woman 
to  think  him  a  real  man,  perhaps,  on  the  prin- 
ciple of  your  Christian  Scientists,  it  might  make 
him  so.  But  then  I  don't  see  how,  at  best,  it 
could  make  him  more  real  than  the  young 
woman  herself;  and  I  should  hardly  expect  the 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

young  woman   who   takes   a   fancy    to    Master 
Stephen  to  be  of  the  most  real  sort. 

Meanwhile,  our  neighbour  Square  (not  old 
Mr.  Square,  but  his  son,  who  is  active  in  pro- 
moting local  good  works)  had  got  wind  some- 
how of  Leagrave  being  a  man  of  letters,  and 
caught  him  to  give  a  lecture  on  English  poetry 
at  the  Little  Buckland  Working  Men's  Club. 
Charles  pleaded  multitude  of  correspondence 
and  arranging  meetings  in  Dampshire — when 
he  leaves  this  it  is  for  the  final  campaign — and 
Minnie  could  do  no  less  than  stay  to  help  him. 
So  Margaret  and  Leagrave  and  I  jumbled  down 
to  the  fat  pastures  of  Little  Buckland,  which  we 
half  envy  and  half  despise,  and  Leagrave  held 
forth  in  the  orthodox  modern  manner  on  mod- 
ern poets.  He  left  one  the  impression,  though 
he  never  said  so,  that  Wordsworth  is  ante- 
diluvian, Tennyson  obsolete.  Browning  un- 
couth, and  the  history  practically  begins,  for  this 
generation,  with  Rossetti,  being  continued  even 
unto — Mr.  Biggleswade,  of  whom  he  spoke  with 
apparently  sincere  respect.  The  only  thing  the  \ 
audience  seemed  to  care  for  was  a  piece  of  Kip-  '• 
ling,  which  he  introduced  in  a  sort  of  rather 
deprecating  way,  as  if  not  sure  whether  it  was  ■ 
good  form  or  not  (by  the  way,  I  am  bound  to  - 
say  he  reads  well  enough).  Most  of  it  was  re- 
ceived with  a  respectful  desire  for  instruction, 
and  assumption  that  what  he  said  must  be  all 
right :  and  those  who  preach  week-day  sermons 
surely  need  not  complain    of   being   treated    no 

ISO 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

worse  than  the  parson.  What  really  bored  them, 
being,  then  and  there,  entirely  puzzling  to  them, 
was  a  passage  he  had  evidently  taken  special 
pains  with,  about  Omar  Khayyam  and  Oriental- 
ism, and  the  reactions  of  Eastern  and  Western 
mind.  I  listened  with  a  grim  inward  chuckle, 
knowing  that  the  young  man's  father,  the  Col- 
onel, who  does  not  pretend  to  be  literary,  could 
have  told  him,  if  he  had  the  wit  to  avow  his  ig- 
norance and  ask,  some  things  a  good  deal  more 
to  the  point  on  that  subject. 

And  so  vote  of  thanks  to  lecturer  for  most  in- 
teresting lecture,  to  worthy  chairman  for  pre- 
siding (they  had  made  me  take  the  chair),  and 
our  party  back  up  the  hill,  feeling  virtuous  and 
rather  empty.  Leagrave  wanted  to  convert  us 
to  some  of  his  new  little  poets — must  we  not  ad- 
mit a  delicately  fervent  passion  in  Huiteau  Led- 
ache's  ballads?  "Margaret,"  said  I,  "what  was 
that  opinion  somebody  gave  us  of  Huiteau  Led- 
ache?  I  never  read  him."  "Oh  yes,"  answered 
Margaret,  with  a  shade  of  hesitation,  "was  it 
Jem?  No,  it  was  Mr.  Shipley.  He  said  the 
creature  was  fit — yes,  just  fit  to  put  in  Rudyard 
Kipling's  pipe,  and  bad  tobacco  at  that."  Lea- 
grave  tried  an  attack  at  another  point  by  claim- 
ing recognition — an  adequate  though  not  ex- 
travagant recognition  —  for  the  speculative 
charm  of  Exon  Versine  and  the  intellectual 
frankness  of  Biggleswade,  his  latest  "Omarians." 
This  was  too  much.  "They  have  not  enough 
stuff  among  them,"  I  protested,  "to  make  a  clout 

IS! 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

for  the  left  shoe  of  old  FitzGerald,  whom  your 
father  and  I  knew  by  heart  in  India  before  they 
were  born."  So  Stephen  Leagrave  and  I  don't 
agree  on  the  most  modern  poets ;  we  don't  quar- 
rel, either,  for  he  is  well  bred. 

Charles,  for  all  I  can  see,  is  organising  a  cer- 
tain defeat  for  himself,  but  I  know  nothing  of 
election  tactics. 

Your  loving  brother, 

Richard. 

P.S. — You  may  discount  what  I  have  been 
saying  about  Stephen  L.  to  any  reasonable  ex- 
tent. Strike  off  from  twenty  to  thirty  per  cent, 
if  you  like.  The  confident  polish  of  the  home 
official  has  a  peculiar  effect  in  rubbing  us  old 
Indians  the  wrong  way.  Stephen  is  a  scholar, 
and  not  pig-headed  when  you  reason  with  him. 
I  have  just  made  him  admit  that  one  of  Tenny- 
son's later  minor  poems,  a  pretty  late  one,  which 
I  fancy  the  general  public  never  cared  for,  is  as 
absolute  a  piece  of  workmanship  as  can  be  found 
in  any  modern  author  for  language,  verse,  and 
felicity,  and  that  no  other  man  could  have  done 
it.  Now  guess  which  it  is,  and  you  may  take 
three  guesses.  R.  E. 


152 


XXII. 

From  Miss  Elizabeth  Etchingham,  83  Hans  Place, 
to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Tolcarne. 

Good  morning,  Dickory.  How  do  you  find 
yourself  to-day?  Well,  I  trust.  You  need  never 
trouble  to  be  ill,  thank  you.  Illness  is  a  grave 
fault  and  one  it  would  go  against  my  conscience 
to  tolerate  in  you  for  a  moment  unless  it  gave 
me  the  chance  of  keeping  my  hand  in  as  sick 
nurse.  And  of  me  in  that  capacity  you  had  best 
beware.  I  should  treat  you  very  harshly,  forc- 
ing a  new-old  book  upon  you  every  day  and  re- 
fusing, without  consulting  the  patient,  all  gar- 
den-party invitations  that  the  Bucklands  might 
afiford.  Ordination  only  should  compel  male 
attendance  at  a  garden-party.  Have  you  ever 
noticed  the  sown  broadcast  smile — pathetic  al- 
most in  its  want  of  focus  and  concentration — 
which  the  typical  clergy  assume  at  a  garden- 
party? 

Why  are  tiresome  Mrs.  Mammon  people  even 
yet  more  tiresome  and  impossible  when  under  a 
tree  than  when  under  a  roof?  Is  failure  to  ad- 
just themselves  to  environment  at  the  root  of  it? 
And  does  a  garden  full  of  women  in  garden- 
party  attire  vaguely  expressing  admiration  for 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

their  hostess's  shrubberies  and  flower-beds  make 
you  long  to  hybernate?  It  does  me.  First  Per- 
son Represented :  "What  a  charming  effect : 
pink  geranium  and  white  viola.  I  wish  my 
gardener,  &c.,  &c."  Second  Person  Repre- 
sented (languidly  and  with  eyes  at  the  back  of 
her  head,  as  otherwise  the  charming  effect  has 
not  come  into  her  line  of  vision) :  "Very,  very 
charming.  Mrs.  Bowanbore  has  such  exquisite 
taste.  Everything  is  so  perfectly  kept.  (With 
sudden  vivacity)  Oh,  Mrs.  Bowanbore,  we  were 
just  saying,  &c.,  &c."  Richard,  how  deadly, 
deadly  dull  to  hear  people  applaud  what  they 
don't  admire.  Please  I  will  fall  asleep  and  dream 
of  something  real  till  they  have  quite  done. 

Would  you  have  me  try  Christian  Science 
upon  Laura's  huffs  or  upon  her  rheumatic  gout 
— which,  however,  she  now  says  is  not  rheumatic 
gout  at  all  but  neuritis — "A  far  more  likely  com- 
plaint for  me  to  suffer  from,  Elizabeth,  after  all 
this  strain."  I  don't  think  Christian  Science 
moves  huffy  temper.     The  prefacing  formula  of 

huffy  folk  is  "I  am  not  annoyed,  but  still " 

The  persistent  disavowal  of  annoyance  accord- 
ing to  Christian  Science  doctrine  should  dispel 
it,  whilst  in  reality  the  disavowal  seems  to  feed 
the  distemper.  Mrs.  Vivian's  friend.  Lady 
Clementine  Mure,  has,  I  admit,  bettered  her 
state  by  conversion.  A  forlorn,  kind,  backbone- 
less  creature  of  the  sort  only  comfortable  under 
a  despotic  form  of  government,  after  that  very 
decisive  and  slightly  tyrannical  Mr.  Mure  died 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

she  drifted  aimlessly  till  a  Christian  Scientist 
took  her  in  tow.  When  her  husband  had  no 
further  use  for  her  services  she  was  thrown  out 
of  work,  poor  soul.  (Maud  Mure  carries  the  re- 
butting of  her  mother's  good  offices  to  the  point 
of  seeming  to  resent  Lady  Clementine's  exist- 
ence.) And  what  excuse  in  the  way  of  vagaries 
and  depression  of  spirit  is  not  to  be  made  for  the 
unemployed?  The  old  divine  who  said  he  had 
known  a  man  come  home  in  high  spirits  from  a 
funeral  merely  because  he  had  had  the  manage- 
ment of  it,  had  the  rare  gift  of  seeing  cause  and 
effect.  A  fanatical  ciiltc  is  essential  to  the  happi- 
ness of  women  like  Lady  Clementine.  Those  of 
her  type  and  of  an  earlier  generation  found  com- 
fort, I  imagine,  in  sitting  under  Evangelical 
clergymen  and  strewing  tracts  on  the  efficacy  of 
prayer  in  paltry  mundane  matters.  (How  ag- 
gressively determined  to  have  their  own  way 
with  Fate  some  folk  are.)  For  the  derivation  of 
the  term  Christian  Science,  I  give  you  Mrs. 
Vivian's  explanation :  "They  call  it  Christian 
Science  thought  it's  neither  scientific  nor  Chris- 
tian, because  two  negatives  make  an  affirma- 
tive." 

But  now  to  business.  You  were  always  oblig- 
ing, and  may  I  ask  you  to  do  just  one  commis- 
sion for  me?  Box  your  own  ears,  dear  (not 
brutally).  That  postscript  to  your  last  letter 
can't  go  unpunished.  Had  you  told  me  to  guess 
by  word  of  mouth  and  while  I  could  drag  the 
riddle's  solution  from  you  after  five  minutes'  sus- 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

pense,  I  should  have  looked  upon  it  as  a  trial  of 
patience.  But  to  be  told  by  post  to  guess,  and 
left  for  days  to  seethe  in  tormenting  perplexity, 
I  could  not  have  believed  it  of  you,  and  the  deed 
throws  a  new  and  lurid  light  upon  your  charac- 
ter. And  to  treat  me  so,  for  whom  you  profess 
a  very  especial  kindness.  Heaven  defend  those 
whom  you  do  not  preten,d  to  favour.  That  they 
may  die  before  they  meet  you  will  be  my  prayer. 
And  the  expense,  too,  to  which  you  put  me.  We 
have  no  Tennyson  here,  and  curiosity  drove  me 
to  the  bookseller  and  brought  me  back  again 
the  richer  by  a  fat  emerald-green  volume,  and 
the  poorer  by  ys.  6d.  Refund  the  money,  please. 
Not  that  I  meant  to  guess.  Canny  folk,  like 
your  sister,  not  only  never  sign  anonymous  let- 
ters, but  never  guess  without  sufficient  evidence 
for  the  forming  of  a  correct  opinion.  It  was 
Goethe,  I  believe,  who  said  that  women  have 
very  weak  ideas  about  poetry  and  think  of 
nothing  but  the  feelings  and  the  words  and  the 
verses.  I  would  not  for  the  world  put  the  dead 
in  the  wrong — an  even  baser  treachery  than 
speaking  ill  of  the  dead — and  I  should  be  sorry 
for  Goethe's  verdict  to  find  itself  challenged  by 
any  brilliant  poetical  criticism  of  mine.  So  take 
notice  that  I  offer  what  comes  as  proof,  not  con- 
futation, of  Goethe's  dictum. 

The  Tennyson  poems,  latterly  published,  that 
I  tliink  T  like  best  are,  the  "Hymn  to  the  Sun," 
with  which  ends  "Akbar's  Dream"  (write  a  life 
of  your  friend  Akbar  yourself),  "Silent  Voices," 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

and  "Early  Spring."  Don't  you  think  the 
"Hymn  to  the  Sun"  exquisite?  It  seems  to  me 
born,  not  made,  and  excellence  of  workmanship 
or  workmanship  at  all  is  not  suggested  by  it.  If 
we  can  separate  the  thought  and  the  phrase,  has 
not  phrasing  failed  to  go  as  far  as  felicity  of 
phrasing  can?  The  two  should  be  indissoluble 
— the  word  the  only  complete  manifestation  of 
the  thought;  as  a  snowdrop  can  be  only  mani- 
fested in  the  form  of  a  snowdrop,  a  rose  in  the 
form  of  a  rose. 

On  Stephen's  return  to  London  I  will  preach 
the  Gospel  of  Wordsworth,  Coleridge's  "Friend 
of  the  wise  and  teacher  of  the  good."  I  may  not 
get  Stephen  to  endorse  Matthew  Arnold's 
eulogy,  but  I  will  make  him  admit  here  and  there 
a  measure  of  beauty  which  brings  Wordsworth 
near  Shakespeare.  There  is  one  thing,  though, 
for  which  I  don't  forgive  Wordsworth.  The 
sonnet — "Why  art  Thou  Silent,"  that  enshrines 
the  lovely  imagery  of  a  "forsaken  bird's  nest 
filled  with  snow,"  should  come  from  a  man  to  a 
woman,  or  a  woman  to  a  man.  Not  from  man 
to — I  suppose — Coleridge. 

But  who  can  throw  a  stone  at  Stephen  if  he 
has  passed  Wordsworth  by?  The  days  don't 
grow  longer,  and  the  roll  of  poet  names  does. 
Further  than  ever  removed  are  the  times  "When 
all  found  readers  who  could  find  a  rhyme."  Paid 
readers  will  soon  be  a  necessity  and  Maecenas 
will  subsidise  his  protege,  not  to  produce  verse, 
but  to  read  his  patron's.     As  to  quality,  for  an- 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

other  Golden  Age  of  Literature  shall  we  have 
to  wait  for  another  Age  of  Calamit}'?  Does  the 
Tree  of  Letters  need  a  winter,  a  black  frost,  a 
severe  check,  a  stern  repression?  The  reign  of 
Mary  came  before  the  reign  of  Elizabeth.  The 
triumphal  Elizabethan  days  followed  the  days  of 
persecution,  which  drove  many  scholars  out  of 
the  kingdom  and  made  the  pursuit  of  learning 
dangerous  to  those  at  home.  Were  a  law 
passed  making  death  the  punishment  of  publica- 
tion, or  even  composition,  on  the  law's  repeal — 
perhaps  sooner — we  might  again  get  something 
supremely  poetic. 

Stephen  improves  on  acquaintance,  and  it  looks 
as  if  a  very  real  young  woman,  Blanche  Vivian, 
takes  sufficient  interest  in  him  to  shake  him  into 
activity.  Blanche  is  delightful — frank  and  unaf- 
fected as  a  pleasant  boy,  and  yet  not  a  hoyden. 
I  can't  agree  with  Mrs.  Carstairs  in  her  condem- 
nation of  the  young  girl  of  the  present  day  and 
her  pastimes.  I  would  rather  see,  as  more 
hygienic,  time  spent  in  cycling  and  playing 
hockey  than  spent  in  painting  china  tiles  and 
playing  the  piano — sheer  waste  of  energy  when 
there  is  no  prospect  of  excelling  in  paint-box 
or  piano  work. 

To  return  to  Stephen,  his  faineant  manner  is, 
I  think,  a  pose,  and  he  schools  himself  to  indif- 
ference. He  does  not  lack  grit,  and  if  some 
pretty  stories  cherished  by  Colonel  Leagrave  of 
his  school  days  tell  truly,  he  has  pluck  enough  to 
be   no    disgrace   to    his  "for   valour"    decorated 

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Etchingham  Letters 


father.  And  I  like  his  courtesy.  "Know,  dear 
brother,  that  Courtesy  is  one  of  the  quahties 
of  God  Himself,  who,  of  His  Courtesy  giveth 
His  sun  and  His  rain  to  the  just  and  the  un- 
just; and  Courtesy  is  the  sister  of  Charity, 
the  which  quencheth  hate  and  keepeth  love 
alive." 

While  looking  into  Maeterlinck  I  was  re- 
minded by  his  chapter  on  silence  of  the  story 
given  in  the  "Fioretti,"  of  King  Louis  and 
Brother  Giles.  When  King  Louis  met  Brother 
Giles  the  two  spoke  not  the  one  to  the  other,  but 
knelt  down  and  embraced  with  "signs  of  love 
and  tenderness."  And  when  the  Brothers  up- 
braided Brother  Giles  for  discourtesy  in  having 
refrained  from  good  words,  he  answered  that 
looking  on  each  other's  hearts  they  read  each 
other  far  better  than  had  they  spoken  with  their 
mouths,  and  sought  with  the  weakness  of  hu- 
man speech  to  show  forth  the  feelings  of  the 
heart.  But  in  what  Maeterlinck  says  of  silence, 
etiquette  and  habit  have  to  be  taken  into  ac- 
count. I  dare  to  be  silent  while  watching  En- 
ticknap's  potting  operations,  nor  feel  as  if  with- 
out a  frantic  wrench  and  speedy  flight  by  the 
vehicle  of  speech  we  should  find  ourselves  on  the 
threshold  of  "the  great  kingdom  of  the  dead,"  or 
a  realm  mystic  as  Omar  Khayyam  verse.  Possi- 
bly though,  Enticknap  on  such  occasions  is  not 
equally  unmoved,  and,  in  his  queer  guttural 
sounds  and  half-articulate  expression  of  disgust 
at  the  cussedness  of  things,  we  have  his  efforts 

m 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

to  escape  from  the  uncanniness  fast  closing 
him  in. 

Do  you  know  Archbishop  Seeker's  first  rule 
of  conversation — silence? 

Colonel  Newton  is  making  his  cure  at  Carls- 
bad, and  I  can't  help  wishing  he  might  continue 
the  process  till  the  end  of  the  chapter.  Alice, 
unmolested,  has  gathered  herself  together  more 
or  less.  She  mobilised  her  forces  sufificiently  to 
dine  with  us  last  night.  She  still  looks  young, 
and  she  still  looks  as  if  it  were  possible  that  lif-e 
might  have  something  better  to  give  her  than 
the  power  of  enduring  distress.  Mr.  Shipley,  for 
the  time  being,  has  taken  up  his  abode  with  her, 
and  the  plan  works  well.  I  think  she  would  be 
glad  for  him  to  marry,  although  his  marriage 
would  take  him  from  her  to  a  certain  extent. 
The  other  day  she  was  saying  that  she  wished  he 
might  find  himself  a  wife  if  only  he  found  the 
right  woman — "someone  who  would  care  for 
him  most  for  what  is  best  in  him,  though  his 
merits  m.ight  interfere  with  social  success  and 
the  amassing  of  riclies."  Alice  admires  excel- 
lence— admires  it  far  more  than  she  admires  the 
diamonds  with  which  Colonel  Newton,  when 
first  they  were  married,  stored  an  iron  safe  of 
dungeon-like  proportions.  She  has  never  learnt 
to  endure  the  way  he  ill-uses  his  dogs  and  bullies 
his  subordinates.  I  found  her  once  crying  over 
the  parting  with  her  dog.  I  asked  her  why  she 
sent  him  away.  "Because  Hubert  kicks  him 
when  he  is  out  of  humour  with  me,"  she  said. 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

Colonel  Newton  used  to  think  to  allay  her  indig- 
nation with  presents,  and  now  the  presents  have 
ceased,  and  I  think  she  is  glad  of  it.  (Who  is  it 
who  said  "Death,  alone  of  all  the  gods,  loves  not 
a  gift"?) 

Laura  is  happily  occupied  in  finding  reasons 
for  not  accepting  your  invitation  to  Tolcarne. 
Certainly,  at  her  pace  of  travel-preparation,  if 
we  mean  to  cross  the  Border  any  day  this  month, 
we  must  before  going  north  turn  neither  south, 
east,  nor  west.     She  is  one  of  the  people  who 
prepare  and  provide  for  every  possible  contin- 
gency, and  to  avoid  minutes  of  trifling  discom- 
fort, spend  hours  in  painful  precautionary  meas- 
ures.    Harry,  whilst  admitting  that  camel-corps 
business  is  child's  play  compared  to  the  getting 
of  Laura  from  London  to  Edinburgh,  bids  me 
bear    in    mind    that    Land-Transport    has    been 
acknowledged  by  high  authority  to   be   a   most 
difificult  question.     He  tells  me  that  in  view  of 
the  coming  campaign  he  feels  bound  to  remind 
us  that  it  is  thought  unadvisable  for  a  convoy  to 
occupy  more  than  one  mile  of  road,  which  would 
allow  it  to  consist  of  from  6o  to  i8p  wagons. 
"And  on   no   account  forget  that  if  oxen   are 
worked  in  larger  companies  that  80  wagons  you 
will  find  yourself  in  grazing  difficulties,   Eliza- 
beth.   Leave  your  pack  elephants  undisturbed  if 
possible  from  9  a.m.  to  3  p.m.  daily.    Remember 
that  Blake,  when  loaded  up  by  Laura,  will  take 
about   as    much    room    as    four   loaded    camels. 
Send  Blair  and  Atholl  if  sick  or  wounded  along 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

the  Line  of  Communication  as  quickly  as  possi- 
ble to  the  Base,"  &c.,  &c.,  &c.  He  recommends 
Mrs.  Carstairs  for  Intelligence  Department 
work,  since  there  is  nothing  sanguine  about  her 
disposition,  it  being  rather  of  that  calm  and  dis- 
trustful order  which  is  acknowledged  to  be  most 
efficacious  for  such  employment.  He  promises, 
too,  a  list  of  necessaries.  The  necessaries  to  in- 
clude hand  hatchets,  felling  axes,  lashing  ropes, 
shovels,  crowbars,  &C.'',  &c.  In  discoursing  after 
this  fashion  he  amuses  himself,  then  he  strokes 
Trelawney's  coat  meditatively,  and,  poor  Harry, 
sighs.     He  is  taking  his  repulse  to  heart. 

I  shall  be  thankful,  as  far  as  the  background 
goes,  to  get  away  from  London.  The  long,  hot 
days  in  London  are  very  long  and  hot,  and  when 
Pan  sleeps  there  is  no  hush  of  omnibuses.  I  hope 
that  change  of  air  will  do  Laura  good.  She  has 
unfortunately  for  herself  lost  Rer  voice,  and  so, 
when  she  is  huffed,  we  don't  hear  much  about  it ; 
a  state  of  affairs  Harry  likens  to  artillery  with- 
out ammunition.  Since  Laura's  dumbness  su- 
pervened. Admiral  Tidenham,  whom  previously 
I  had  on  her  behalf  cultivated,  is  unavailable  as  a 
safety-valve.  I  thought  there  was  no  safer  har- 
bourage for  her  lamentations  and  grievances 
than  Admiral  Tidcnham's  ear-trumpet.  She 
tempered  them  for  transmission  by  ear-trumpet. 
(You  can't  with  graceful  ease  accuse  those  of 
your  own  household  of  heinous  oflfences  down  an 
ear-trumpet.)  .Admiral  Tidenham  is  a  kind  old 
fellow,  and  his  talk  of  armoured  cruisers,  food 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

supply  in  war,  Russian  naval  expenditure,  of- 
fends no  one  that  I  know  but  Charles.  Sir  Au- 
gustus, rumours  report,  is  at  Pampesford-Royal, 
and  contemplating  alterations  of  the  house.  If 
ever  there  was  a  dwelling  deserving  of  the  house 
agents'  objectionable  term  of  mansion,  I  feel  it  is 
Pampesford-Royal. 

Rumour  further  says  that  Mr.  Biggleswade  is 
now  at  Oxbridge.  (The  Gainsworthys  are  his 
despised  relations.)  If  Cynthia  sees  him,  his 
rather  impertinent  attentions  may,  by  force  of 
contrast,  do  Harry  a  good  turn.  "Put  your 
mind  at  rest ;  you  have  made  it  plain  to  me  that 
you  have  no  prejudice  against  sin,  and  you  may 
as  well  let  the  subject  drop,"  Mrs.  Vivian  told 
him  when  last  I  saw  them  together.  "I  see  from 
the  publisher's  advertisements  that  you  are  in 
eruption  again,"  she  went  on  to  say,  and  further 
informed  him  that  she  thought  she  preferred  the 
Elizabethan  "frankness"  to  his.  "Yours,  you  see. 
Vicar  (the  Vicar  form  of  address  she  knows  is 
abhorrent  to  him),  seems  an  anachronism,  and 
theirs  was  in  keeping  with  the  manners  of  the 
age.  The  coarseness  of  their  verse  and  sports 
and  jokes,  Hugo  Ennismore  says,  tallied."  Be- 
fore he  appeared  upon  the  scene  she  had  told  me 
that  the  title  of  his  new  volume  is  "Love  in  a 
Mist,"  and  she  wished  there  was  more  mist. 

What  you  say  makes  me  disposed  to  learn 
piquet.  I  have  gone  the  length  of  looking  into 
the  book  of  the  game,  and  the  first  rules  I  came 
across  were  those  that  I  wish  Providence  had 

16.3 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

adopted  when  framing  the  rules  of  life:  "Cards 
accidentally  dropped  may  be  retaken."  "If  the 
cards  are  dealt  wrongly  the  error  may  De  recti- 
fied before  either  player  has  taken  up  his  hand." 
The  following  would  tie  the  hands  and  tongues, 
of  meddlers  and  busybodies :  "A  bystander  call- 
ing attention  to  any  error  or  oversight  and 
thereby  affecting  the  score,  may  be  called  upon 
to  pay  all  stakes  and  debts  of  the  player  whose 
interest  he  has  prejudicially  affected."  Poor 
Mrs.  Carstairs,  poor  countless  old  women,  were 
this  rule  of  piquet  the  rule  of  human  existence. 
"For  he  that  hath  to  him  shall  be  given,  &c.," 
seems  the  idea  of  piquet  as  of  life.  Is  piquet  the 
sword-game,  do  you  think? 

At  last,  at  Alice  Newton's  bidding,  I  have 
read  "The  Secret  Rose."  Owing  to  your 
brotherly  munificence  I  am  the  owner  of  sundry 
Indian  necklaces,  strings  of  cut  and  uncut, 
many-hued  stones.  If  among  these  I  threw  a 
tassel  or  two  of  seed-pearls,  of  gold-dust,  of  am- 
ber, of  jade,  of  crystal,  as  much.  Sir,  as  you  will ; 
if  to  these  I  added  a  raven's  feather  and  the 
feather  of  a  swan,  "a  lily  pale,"  a  damask  rose 
(crimson),  a  sprig  of  funeral  yew;  and  if  then  I 
could  dream  of  a  rainbow  reflected  in  silver  mir- 
ror and  stars  reflected  in  cypress-circled  pool,  I 
should  get  the  feeling  that  I  had  read  "The  Se- 
cret Rose."  You  would  esteem  the  curse  of 
Hanrahan  the  Red.  I  quite  enter  into  the  senti- 
ment of  it  and  the  insufficient  reasons  for  the 
various  damnations  please  me.    In  certain  moods 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

I  feel  disposed  to  call  down  fire  from  Heaven 
and  consume  someone,  because  in  my  mind's  eye 
I  always  see  her  in  a  bonnet  of  an  unbecoming 
hue,  or  upon  another  because,  when  I  am  impa- 
tient to  be  gone,  he  is  rather  longer  over  his 
dinner  than  is  a  dog. 

Which  day  do  you  come  to  London?  It  must 
be  before  we  go.  Don't  let  us  have  for  stage  di- 
rections again.  Exit  Elizabeth,  Enter  Sir  Rich- 
ard. I  really  must  see  you,  and  there  are  plans  to 
discuss.  The  present  situation  is  untenable,  and 
somebody  must  retire  or  show  a  change  of  front. 
But  I  won't  give  an  opinion  in  family  conclave 
till  I  have  heard  yours.  Harry  says,  "Chuck  the 
whole  thing  up,"  by  which  he  means  "chuck  up" 
Hans  Place,  and  he  speaks  of  a  flat  at  Albert 
G  te  or  in  Sloane  Gardens  for  the  two  of  us,  or  if 
alone,  his  old  quarters  in  Duke  Street.  I,  how- 
ever, am  partly  responsible  for  the  rent  of  this 
house,  which  we  took  on  a  seven-fourteen- 
twenty-one  years'  lease  when  Laura  seemed  to 
wish  the  future  to  be  a  fixture  as  far  as  we  could 
make  it  one ;  and  I  do  not  feel  free  to  leave  with 
a  month's  notice.  We  might  let  the  house. 
Houses  let  in  this  part  of  the  world,  and  Laura 
could  put  herself  and  Cynthia  into  a  smaller 
dwelling-place  if  she  would.  Aunt  Jane  says, 
"You  and  dear  Harry  have  always  a  home  in 
Chester  Square."  But  nothing  would  induce 
Harry  to  go  there.  Aunt  Jane  is  very  kind,  but 
her  sympathy  and  partisanship  have  of  late  be- 
come rather  too  marked  for  the  preservation  of 

i6s 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

peace.  Since  her  talebearing  old  maid  learnt 
from  Blake  that  "her  ladyship  wants  so  much 
waiting  on  that  she  can't  do  'Miss  Etchingham 
justice,"  Aunt  Jane's  bearing  is  that  of  benevo- 
lent aunt  to  Cinderella  ill-treated  by  a  step- 
mother. "Dear  Elizabeth  was  always  used  to 
this  and  that,"  she  tells  Laura  pointedly,  and 
Laura  in  consequence  no  longer  considers  Aunt 
Jane  in  need  of  a  champion,  and  shamefully 
neglected  by  every  member  of  the  family  but 
herself. 

Now  write  "before  three  suns"  and  tell  me 
which  is  your  Tennyson  poem,  and  let  the  letter 
be  a  "best  selected"  letter.  Those  letters  that 
can  be  read  aloud  to  Laura  or  carried  round  to 
Chester  Square  are  nothing  very  much  to  me.  I 
like  the  letters  from  you  that  I  understand,  but 
which,  did  they  fall  into  the  enemy's  or  the  un- 
initiated's  hands,  would  provoke  the  enemy  or 
uninitiated  to  say  in  irritated  accents,  "What  in 
the  world  is  all  this  about?"  A  letter,  not  of  com- 
merce, should  but  be  possible  from  its  sender  to 
its  recipient,  and  should  bear  the  impress  of  both 
like  a  gift. 

Farewell,  Dickory,  "Yours  in  that  which  no 
waters  can  quench,  no  time  forget,  nor  distance 
wear  away." 

Elizabeth. 

P.S. — Blair  and  Atholl  have  not  been  quite 
themselves,  but  are  now  convalescent.  They 
send  you  a  message :  "In  thought  we  gently  ruf- 

iGr. 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

fle  ourselves  against  Sir  Richard's  hand."  Tre- 
lawney,  cat  of  my  heart,  on  hearing  this,  and  not 
to  be  outdone  in  dutiful  affection,  said,  "When 
I  think  of  Sir  Richard  I  purr  involuntarily." 


167 


XXIII. 

From  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Tolcarnc,  to  Miss 
Eli::abcth  Etchingham,  83  Hans  Place. 

My  dear  Elizabeth, — Speak  not  of  garden 
parties,  or  rather  do,  for  Mrs.  Follett  is  much 
comforted  by  your  opinion  of  them.  Last  week 
she  was  set  upon  in  intervals  of  tea  and  croquet, 
within  about  half  an  hour,  by  six  other  clergy- 
men's wives,  who  wanted  to  know  exactly  why 
that  excellent  young  man  Mr.  Weekes  had  gone 
away;  likewise  Mr.  Follett's  opinions  on  ritual. 
She  gave  them  six  different  and  widely  incon- 
sistent answers,  and  hopes  they  will  be  edified 
when  they  compare  notes. 

We  agree  pretty  well  about  Tennyson's  latest 
poems,  I  think.  But  the  one  I  had  in  mind  is 
not  of  that  set ;  it  dates  from  several  years  be- 
fore. I  mean  the  lines  to  Virgil  written  at  the 
request  of  the  Mantuans.  (Stephen  Leagrave 
must  needs  write  Vergil  with  an  c.  I  will  not 
alter  a  name  fixed  in  English  literature  for  cen- 
turies, because  the  true  Latin  form  has  turned 
out  to  be  Vergilius,  any  more  than  I  will  write 
Muhammad  for  Mahomet  or  Quran  for  Koran 
when  I  am  writing  English.)  There  is  to  my 
thinking  no   more  perfect   example   of  Tenny- 

168 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

son's  mature  art.  A  novel  and  impressive  met- 
rical form,  which  would  alone  have  gone  far  to 
make  a  new  poet's  reputation,  is  the  least  of  its 
perfections.  It  is  full  of  Virgilian  scholarship 
and  exquisite  Virgilian  echoes,  and  there  are 
lines  in  it  which  for  pure  harmony  cannot  be  sur- 
passed even  in  "Lycidas."  This,  for  example, 
which  I  see  people  are  beginning  to  use  as  a 
quotation : 

"All  the  charm  of  all  the  Muses 

often  flowering  in  a  lonely  word." 

Still  more  choice,  perhaps,  is  this : 

"Summers  of  the  snakeless  meadow, 
unlaborious  earth  and  oarless  sea." 

And  then  the  delicate  conceit  of  the  Italian  form 
brought  in  at  the  end ;  something  of  risk  in  it,  if 
you  will,  but  such  risk  as  only  the  consummate 
masters  of  language  know  how  to  take  and  use : 

"I  salute  thee,  Mantovano, 

I  that  loved  thee  since  my  day  began, 
Wielder  of  the  stateliest  measure 

ever  moulded  by  the  lips  of  man." 

Just  so  would  Virgil,  if  called  on  to  celebrate  a 
Greek  poet,  have  delighted  to  play  with  some 
rarely  sounding  Greek  name  like  his  Actios 
Orithyia,  or  close  on  some  fuller  half-exotic  ca- 
dence like  that  of  his  wonderful  line — 

"armatumque  auro  circumspicit  Oriona." 

Not  that  the  lines  to  Virgil   are  Tennyson's 

169 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

greatest  work,  or  in  the  strict  sense  a  great 
poem.  But  they  are  a  jewel  of  workmanship  in 
a  difficult  kind,  absolute  in  its  kind,  and  such 
as  Tennyson  alone,  in  our  time,  could  have 
wrought  with  such  a  combination  of  high  dig- 
nity and  minute  felicity. 

Now  and  then  I  wonder  why  Tennyson  did 
not  strive  to  emulate  Virgil  and  Milton  in  their 
use  of  proper  names  to  ornament  verse.  Per- 
haps he  felt  that  Milton  had  done  it  in  English 
once  for  all.  Mr.  Swinburne,  I  suppose,  is  of 
the  same  opinion.  He  knows  Victor  Hugo's 
work  intimately,  as  Tennyson  did  not ;  and  I  be- 
lieve Victor  Hugo  is  the  only  modern  poet  who 
has  habitually  aimed  at  that  sort  of  efifect.  It 
would  be  unkind  to  ask  Mr.  Swinburne  whether 
he  thinks  Victor  Hugo  succeeded,  as  unkind  as 
to  ask  us  oldish  fellows,  who  were  carried  off  our 
legs  by  "Songs  before  Sunrise"  a  quarter  of  a 
century  ago,  to  go  back  on  it  now  and  pick  out 
the  inequalities.  My  own  feeling,  with  submis- 
sion to  French  critics,  is  that  Victor  Hugo  did 
not  succeed  with  his  proper  names  on  the  whole. 
They  are  imposing  only  by  chance ;  he  could 
not  handle  them  with  Virgil's  or  Milton's  per- 
fect choice  and  sureness,  and  sometimes  he  gives 
us  nothing  but  a  jaw-breaking  catalogue  for  the 
space  of  two  or  three  couplets.  Leconte  de  Lisle 
(a  poet  whom  English  scholars  ought  to  be  bet- 
ter acquainted  with)  occasionally  gives  signs  that 
he  could  have  achieved  more  in  this  line  if  he 
chose.    All  this  without  prejudice  to  maintain- 

170 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

ing  old  father  Hugo's  fame,  in  other  respects, 
contra  niundum.  Have  you  still  that  precious, 
thumbed,  bedamped,  bedusted,  pencil-marked, 
travel-beaten  volume  of  the  "Legende  des 
Siecles,"  in  which  we  read  his  masterpieces  to- 
gether? I  shall  never  get  so  much  pleasure  from 
the  final  ne  varietur  edition :  the  pieces  are  all 
shuffled  about,  as  I  found  the  pictures  at  the 
Louvre,  and  I  can't  lay  my  hand  on  an  old  fa- 
vourite without  a  hunt.  But  Lord  !  (I  thank  Mr. 
Pepys  daily  for  that  convenient  form  of  break- 
ing ofif)  to  think  how  fevt^  English  people  know 
that  French  poetry  is  a  kingdom  of  itself,  and 
richly  worth  taking  the  trouble  to  enter  into. 
Perhaps  M.  Rostand  may  be  the  destined  mis- 
sionary. So  many  English  folk  have  bought 
"Cyrano  de  Bergerac"  that  I  suppose  a  good 
many  must  be  reading  it  who  never  read  any 
French  verse  before.  And  M.  Rostand's  verse — 
leaving  it  to  the  French  critics  to  settle  the  pre- 
cise degree  of  excellence — is  certainly  very  good. 
Maeterlinck,  Maeterlinck,  and  Maeterlinck ! 
Stephen  Leagrave  has  been  preaching  him  to 
Margaret  and  me.  We  feel  rebellious.  There 
are  pretty  things,  some  fine  ones,  and  Maeter- 
linck has  doubtless  made  a  manner  of  his  own. 
But  can  you  believe  that  this  modern  mysticism 
will  come  to  more  than  a  curious  literary  phase 
to  be  chronicled  in  the  school  books  of  the  later 
twentieth  century?  Real  speculative  mysticism 
is  lofty  and  splendid  while  it  holds  together — 
and  perhaps  more  of  it  is  true  than  the  formal 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

philosophers  allow.  In  decay  it  is  odious.  By 
no  means  is  it  the  case  that  "/«  morccaux  en  sont 
bons."  The  bits,  when  it  breaks  up,  relapse  into 
disgusting  superstition,  I  have  seen  "The  Se- 
cret Rose,"  too ;  it  gives  me  more  pleasure  than 
jMaeterhnck.  And  I  don't  see  why  it  is  not  quite 
as  good  work.  I  believe,  however,  that  they  do 
these  things  better  in  the  East,  and  I  doubt  if  the 
clever  young  men  of  our  day  can  get  into  any- 
thing but  a  backwater  by  competing  with  the 
East  or  even  the  Catholic  Middle  Ages. 

Piquet  does  seem  to  be  connected  with  the 
Italian  picchc — which  became  pique  in  French,  as 
for  us  the  equivalent  spade  became  the  suit  of 
spades ;  but  the  connexion  is  none  too  clear.  I 
can  only  refer  you  to  Cavendish's  historical  in- 
troduction. 

The  enclosed  letter  from  Jem  will  have  some 
interest  for  you.  I  am  not  sorry  about  Cynthia. 
She  may  appreciate  a  gentleman  better  after 
having  to  suffer  a  pretentious  cad.  I  add  a 
translation  of  the  curse. 

Our  brother  Charles  is  ofif  to  command  his 
fate,  if  he  can,  in  Dampshire.  After  this  week 
I  am  free  for  London  when  you  please.  Let  me 
have  your  orders  accordingly.  Margaret  is 
keen  on  hearing  some  good  music ;  there  are  not 
even  any  musical  people  here.  The  Follets 
would  like  to  be,  but  have  no  time  to  keep  it  up. 
Your  loving  brother, 

Richard. 


172 


XXIV. 

(Enclosed  in  No.  XXIII.) 

From  Janws  Etchingham,  Silvertoe  College, 
Oxbridge,  to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham. 

Mv  DEAR  Sir  Richard, — Our  young  friend 
Arthur's  work  will  do,  I  think.  When  I  was  at 
Eton  last  week — a  mighty  pretty  ride  from  Ox- 
bridge— Lytewell  let  me  see  some  composition 
of  his,  which  was  really  well  turned,  and  showed 
a  good  grip  of  the  language  for  his  age. 

I  have  been  meeting  another  young  friend  of 
yours  at  the  Gainsworthys',  a  Miss  Leagrave — 
immature,  but  pleasing  so  far  as  she  goes,  and 
she  seemed  disposed  to  expand.  I  dare  say  she 
was  hampered  by  the  formal,  old-fashioned  ways 
of  her  well-meaning  hosts.  They  bristle  with 
prejudices  and  find  something  to  be  shocked  at 
in  every  new  person  who  makes  their  acquaint- 
ance, unless  he  or  she  comes  to  them  with  some 
sort  of  reputation,  in  which  case  they  assume 
with  the  most  touching  simplicity  that  it  must  be 
all  right.  So  they  tolerate,  or  more  than  toler- 
ate, that  intolerable  ass  and  impostor  Big- 
gleswade, whom  Aristophanes  would  have 
called [Marginal  note  by  Sir  R.  E.     Here 

173 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

follow  some  epithets  which,  being  Greek,  you 
could  not  read,  nor  should  I  recommend  most 
of  them  for  your  reading  if  you  could.  So  I  have 
cut  ofif  those  few  lines  at  the  bottom  of  tkc  page.] 

Pity  that  such  corruptions  breed  in  the  sun  of 
learning  at  times.  The  beast  was  rather  offen- 
sively attentive  to  Miss  Leagrave.  I  am  bound 
to  say  for  her  that  she  seemed  to  dislike  it  thor- 
oughly; her  mind  is  unformed,  but  I  guess  her 
instincts  are  pretty  sound.  If  Mrs.  Gainsworthy 
had  been  a  person  of  any  gumption  she  would 
have  rescued  the  poor  girl.  But  she  smiled  and 
looked  on  fatuously,  no  doubt  supposing  that 
Miss  Leagrave  was  much  honoured  by  the  con- 
versation of  a  distinguished  author.  What 
d d  idiots  good  people  can  be ! 

Blunham  and  I  have  been  cursing  the  com- 
mon dog  for  the  last  fortnight.  Hunter,  one  of 
our  promising  scholars  (a  history  man,  so  I  don't 
see  much  of  his  work  myself),  was  out  cycling 
with  Blunham,  and  as  they  were  coming  home  a 
big  loafing  village  dog  turned  right  across 
Hunter's  wheel  and  brought  him  down  with  a 
broken  collar-bone.  Wheeling,  like  mountain- 
eering, has  some  unavoidable  accidents  besides 
the  (h  +  i)  avoidable  ones.  Lucky  it  was  not 
Blunham,  who  is  in  for  the  schools  this  term, 
both  for  himself  and  for  the  College ;  and  it  was 
one  of  the  first  remarks  Hunter  made,  which 
does  him  credit.  He  is  a  cheerful  man,  and  has 
been  finding  amusement  in  learning  to  do  as 
much  as  he  can  with  his  left  hand.    I  suggested 

174 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

a  trial  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci's  trick-writing,  re- 
versed from  right  to  left,  to  be  read  in  a  mirror; 
and  he  finds  it  really  comes  easier  to  the  left 
hand  that  way.  Blunham  and  I  revisited  that 
village  within  a  few  days  and  found  the  dog  as 
fat  and  well-liking  as  could  be.  He  was  too 
large  to  be  run  over,  and  seemed  not  to  have 
minded  at  all.  So  we  could  only  relieve  our  feel- 
ings and  Hunter's  with  a  curse.  I  got  it  a  little 
touched  up  by  Shipley  one  day  when  we  met 
in  town ;  of  course  he  would  have  done  it  better. 
Still,  it  may  amuse  you  and  Mr.  Follett. 

Incipit  cxcommunicatio  canina. 

Maledictus  sit  canis  ille  impudentissimus  qui 
scholarem  nostrum  de  rota  eversit. 

Maledictus  sit  cum  omnibus  malis  canibus  qui 
a  principio  mundi  maledicti  sunt. 

Maledictus  sit  cum  canibus  Samaritanis  qui 
carnes  reginae  lezabel  comederunt. 

Maledictus  sit  cum  latratore  Anubi  et  ceteris 
daemonibus  cynocephalis  quot  unquam  in 
Aegypto  latraverunt. 

Procul  sint  ab  ipso  omnes  benedictiones  quas 
boni  canes  meriti  sunt  in  caelo  vel  terra. 

Minime  videat  annos  Argi,  neque  cum  angelis 
ambulet  sicut  canis  Tobiae. 

Maledictus  sit  per  canes  caelestes  Sirium  et 
Procyonem  et  Canes  Venaticos. 

Maledictus  sit  in  triplici  maledictione  per  Cer- 
berum  canem  infernum  et  per  tria  capita  eius. 

Maledictus  sit  coram  domina  regina  et  coram 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

comitatu  per  omnes  constitutiones  de  capistris 
imponendis. 

Maledictus  sit  etiam  per  omnia  rotabilia  quae 
facit  Dominus,  per  primum  mobile  firmamenti  et 
per  gyrationes  eius,  per  Stellas,  per  planetas,  et 
per  polum,  per  solem,  per  lunam,  per  terram,  et 
per  omnium  angelorum  potentiam  qui  revolu- 
tiones  ipsorum  regunt. 

Maledictus  sit  in  ventorum  circulis  et  in  oceani 
gurgitibus. 

Maledictus  sit  per  rotam  motricem  universi 
quae  est  materia  et  per  rotam  directricem  quae 
est  spiritus  et  per  catenam  quae  est  ipsorum  liar- 
monia  praestabilita. 

Maledictus  sit  per  rotas  animalium  alatorum 
quae  vidit  Ezechiel  propheta  et  per  eorum  volu- 
bilitatem  in  saecula. 

Opprimat  eum  Fortunae  improbae  rota  et 
semper  in  infimam  sortem  deiciat. 

Torqueatur  super  rotam  Ixionis  et  frangatur 
sicut  rotae  curruum  Pharaonis. 

Maledictus  sit  in  orbe  rotundo  ac  prefecto 
maledictionum.     Fiat,  fiat. 

Explicit. 

Otherwise  the  chief  news  of  this  cver-bcing- 
reformcd  University  is  that  we  have  been  with- 
out a  burning  question  for  two  whole  terms. 
Yours  ever, 

James  Etchingham. 


126 


XXIVa. 

(Enclosed  in  No.  XXIII.) 

Translation. 

Here  beginneth  the  excommunication  of  the 
Dog. 

Cursed  be  this  dog  of  infiuite  wickedness  who 
upset  our  scholar  from  his  wheel. 

Cursed  be  he  with  all  evil  dogs  which  have 
been  cursed  from  the  beginning  of  the  world. 

Cursed  be  he  with  the  dogs  of  Samaria  which 
ate  the  body  of  queen  Jezebel. 

Cursed  be  he  with  the  barking  god  Anubis 
and  all  other  dog-headed  devils  that  ever  barked 
in  Egypt. 

May  all  the  blessings  earned  by  good  dogs  in 
heaven  or  earth  be  far  from  him. 

Let  him  in  no  wise  see  the  age  of  Argus,  nor 
walk  with  angels  like  Tobit's  dog. 

Cursed  be  he  by  the  heavenly  dogs  Sirius  and 
Procyon  and  by  the  Hunting  Dogs. 

Cursed  be  he  with  a  threefold  curse  by  the 
hell-hound  Cerberus  and  his  three  heads. 

Cursed  be  he  before  our  Lady  the  Queen  and 
before  the  County  Council  by  all  and  every  the 
muzzling  orders. 

177 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Cursed  be  he  likewise  by  all  wheeling  things 
which  the  Lord  hath  made,  by  the  prime  mover 
of  the  firmament  and  his  rotation,  by  the  stars, 
the  planets,  the  pole,  the  sun,  the  moon,  and  the 
earth,  and  by  the  power  of  all  the  angels  who 
govern  their  revolutions. 

Cursed  be  he  in  cyclones  and  cursed  in  whirl- 
pools. 

Cursed  be  he  by  the  driving  wheel  of  the  uni- 
verse, which  is  matter,  and  by  the  steering  wheel, 
which  is  spirit,  and  by  the  chain,  which  is  the 
pre-established  harmony  thereof. 

Cursed  be  he  for  ever  by  the  wheels  of  the 
winged  living  creatures  which  Ezekiel  the 
prophet  saw  and  by  the  swiftness  of  their  rolling. 

Let  the  wheel  of  Fortune  in  her  wrath  crush 
him  and  ever  cast  him  down  to  the  meanest  fate. 

Let  him  be  whirled  upon  Ixion's  wheel  and 
broken  even  as  the  wheels  of  Pharaoh's  chariots. 

Cursed  be  he  in  a  whole  and  perfect  round  of 
cursing.    So  be  it.  A  true  version. — R.  E. 


178 


XXV. 

From  Miss  Eliaabcth  Etchingham,  The  Hotel, 
Glenfearn,  N.B.,  to  Sir  Richard  Efchingham, 
83  Hans  Place,  London. 

Wonders,  Dickory,  will  never  cease;  we  have 
actually  survived  the  hardships  of  a  journey  from 
London  to  Edinburgh  and  on  from  Edinburgh 
to  Glenfearn.  Certainly  we  have  left  from 
Laura's  point  of  view  most  necessaries  of  life  be- 
hind us,  but  as  we  have  not  left  ourselves,  that 
need  not  trouble  you — who  need  Hans  Place 
house-room.  I  really  did  think  we  should  never 
get  Laura  ofif  unless  we  dug  her  out  with  a  spade. 
She  seemed  as  firmly  rooted  to  the  ground  as  if 
she  were  a  tree.  It  was,  you  know,  that  last  visit 
from  Sir  Augustus  that  finally  set  her  in  motion. 
What  arguments  can  he,  of  all  people,  have 
brought  to  bear  to  get  her  to  the  starting  point? 
The  matter  is  full  of  mystery ;  however,  while  I 
can  see  the  hills,  range  beyond  range,  still  topped 
with  snow,  and  breathe  this  delightful  moor- 
scented  air,  I  feel  as  if  Sir  Augustus  and  all  his 
works  weren't  worth  the  fraction  of  a  moment's 
thought. 

I  am  glad  to  escape,  and  waste  time  wonder- 
ing why  any  one  lives  in  London  who  can  live 
elsewhere.    Do  you  remember  in  "Fumifugium" 

179 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

the  story  of  the  merchant  who  had  "so  strange 
an  antipathy  to  the  air  of  London"  that  when  he 
came  to  the  Exchange  he  "within  an  hour  or 
two  grew  extremely  indisposed,"  and  was 
"forced  to  take  horse  and  ride  as  for  his  Hfe  till 
once  more  he  came  into  the  fields"?  My  mortal 
frame  is  not  so  sensitive  to  maleficent  influence 
as  was  this  gentleman's,  but  I  think  my  spirit's 
antipathy  to  the  air  is  unconquerable.  John 
Evelyn  had  no  patience  with  the  "presumptuous 
smoke"  which  "spreads  a  yellowness  upon  our 
choicest  pictures  and  hangings,"  "kills  our  bees 
and  flowers,"  and  "sticks  on  the  hands  of  our  fair 
ladies  and  nicer  dames."  "Where  is  there  such 
coughing  under  Heaven  as  in  the  London 
Churches?"  he  asks.  London,  he  says,  killed 
Old  Parr,  and  he  likens  the  citv  to  "the  Suburbs 
of  Hell." 

Glenfearn  does  not  quite  match  my  old  recol- 
lections. There  is  more  snow  upon  the  hills  and 
there  is  more  water  in  the  burns  than  I  remem- 
ber, and  where  I  used  to  see  scarlet  hips  and 
haws  wild  white  roses  now  are  blowing.  The 
thicket  of  rose-briers  at  the  head  of  the  loch  is 
white  with  blossom,  the  whin  on  the  brae  glit- 
ters in  cloth-of-gold,  and,  as  is  seemly  in  Scot- 
land, bluebells — "the  azured  harebell"  like 
Fidele's  veins — are  everywhere. 

Crossing  the  border  would  not,  I  suppose,  en- 
able the  Ethiopian  to  change  his  skin  nor  the 
leopard  his  spots,  and  this  side  of  Tweed  Laura 
is  Laura  still.     The  poor  "Camelry."  as  Harry 

i8o 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

christens  Blake,  has  therefore  been  busily  em- 
ployed running  to  and  fro  on  telegraph  business 
to  the  post-office — a  queer  dim  little  room  in  a 
road-side  cottage  overshadowed  by  fir  trees,  its 
whitewashed  walls  garlanded  with  Tropcoolum 
Spcciosmn.  Things  telegraphed  for  include 
green  glazed  calico  and  a  green  lampshade  to  ex- 
clude the  light  of  day  and  night,  a  square  of 
mackintosh,  "as  her  ladyship  thinks  now,  M'm, 
that  the  damp  will  rise  when  she  sits  out,"  a  tray 
on  which  to  bring  breakfast  up-stairs  that  will 
not  crush  beneath  its  weight  the  Breakfaster  in 
bed,  beef-essence,  peptonized  cocoa  and  milk, 
meat  lozenges,  a  filter,  &c.,  &c.  Our  stepmother 
has  already  changed  her  room  three  times.  In 
the  first  room  the  noise  kept  her  awake  late,  in 
the  second  the  light  awoke  her  early,  in  the  third 
a  most  pestiferous  (and,  I  fancy,  imaginary) 
odour  prevented  the  closing  of  her  eyes  all  night. 
Blake  was  caught  red-handed  by  Mrs.  McPhail 
pouring  Condy's  fluid  into  a  gully  outside  this 
last-mentioned  room.  Had  Laura  ordered  the 
breakfast  to  be  thrown  down  the  gully  Mrs.  Mc- 
Phail's  feelings  would  have  suffered  less.  We 
ran  indeed,  thanks  to  Laura's  passion  for  disin- 
fectants, a  narrow  risk  of  being  turned  out  of 
"The  Hotel,  Glenfearn,"  bag  and  baggage. 
"That  woman's  fou  o'  fikes,  I  canna  be  fashed  wi' 
her.  The  drains  was  a'  richt  afore  she  cam — 
naething  short  o'  Scone  Palace  and  a  French 
shaif  wadd  plase  her,"  was  what  Mrs,  McPhail 
did  not  mean  me  to  hear.    However,  I  had  not  a 

i8i 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

father  in  the  diplomatic  service  and  a  brother  in 
the  political  department  for  nothing,  and,  though 
our  tenure  is  precarious,  here  we  remain. 

Laura,  too,  is  slightly  better  content.  Tlie 
hotel  omnibus  yesterday  brought  a  woman  of 
London  aspect  accompanied  by  many  substan- 
tial-looking trunks  and  an  unsubstantial-looking 
maid  tottering  under  the  weight  of  a  big  dress- 
ing-case and  a  bigger  dressing-bag.  When 
Laura  found  the  new-comer's  name  to  be  Mrs. 
Le  Marchant  and  her  address  Lowndes  Street, 
dejection  gave  way  to  interest.  Later  in  the  day 
I  was  thankful  to  see  her  venture  so  far  as  to 
seat  herself  beside  Mrs.  Le  Marchant  on  a  bench 
in  the  dank  and  diminutive  garden  of  the  inn — a 
garden  where  a  paling,  a  privet-hedge,  and  a 
dilapidated  water-butt  concealed  every  vestige  of 
the  view,  which  is  wide  and  magnificent.  The 
Birds  of  a  Feather  fell  almost  immediately  into 
conversation,  and  talked  on  and  on  with  decreas- 
ing suspicion  and  increasing  civility  till  nearly 
dinner-time.  "She  seems  to  know  a  good  many 
people  that  we  do,"  Laura  told  me  afterwards, 
with  far  more  approbation  in  her  tone  than  I  had 
heard  since  we  left  home ;  and  her  "leddyship" 
and  her  "leddyship's"  latest  find  have  now  gone 
to  drive  together  in  Mr.  McPhail's  largest 
landau ;  and  on  and  on  they  will  drive,  the 
eternal  hills  around  them,  too  conversationally 
occupied  in  the  quest  of  mutual  acquaintances  to 
see  anything  but  each  other's  veils. 

If  you  think  it  would  not  be  indiscreet,  you 

182 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

might  let  Harry  know  that  la  dame  de  scs  pensec.i; 
is  auspiciously  sad.  Her  Oxbridge  advenUircs 
have  done  my  dear  Harry's  cause  good.  Jem  is 
right  about  Mr.  Biggleswade  and  right  about 
Mrs.  Gainsworthy  too.  She  is  fatuously  uncon- 
scious of  the  obvious — of  the  obvious  which  was 
not  the  obvious  in  her  youth  —  as  advancing 
years  and  increasing  bulk  make  many  a  worthy 
woman.  There  are  exceptions  of  course,  but  age 
does  dull  women  more  than  it  dulls  men.  The 
dullards  of  your  sex  at  least  retain  some  shred  of 
interest  in  their  past,  but  those  of  mine  seem  to 
become  the  next  thing  to  comatose.  What  a 
good  fellow  is  that  man  of  many  jests  but  few 
spoken  words,  Jem.  He  seems  to  have  played 
the  friend  in  need  to  Cynthia  once  or  twice,  par- 
ticularly once  when  Mrs.  Gainsworthy  sent  her 
home  from  some  house  where  they  were  dining 
under  Mr.  Biggleswade's  sole  escort,  and  Jem, 
for  all  his  shyness  and  avowed  dislike  of  women's 
company,  voluntarily  went  too.  Cynthia's  in- 
stincts are  true  enough,  and  I  doubt  that  she  will 
be  as  easy  to  move  in  the  marriage-way  as,  with 
less  evidence  at  my  disposal,  I  judged.  And  for 
this  I  thank  Heaven. 

In  Edinburgh  I  paid  a  visit  to  one  of  the  old 
bookshops.  I  bought  myself  a  copy  of  Hobbes' 
"Leviathan."  Tell  me  if  you  are  an  admirer  of 
Hobbes.  but  don't  tell  me  I  can  get  "Leviathan" 
in  "Morley's  Universal  Library."  I  see  their 
value,  but  I  detest  wonderful-at-the-money  re- 
prints, and  would  as  soon  read  Hobbes  in  such 

183 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

guise  as  see  him  himself  portrayed  in  deer- 
stalker and  shooting-jacket.  Then,  to  add  to 
your  song-books,  I  bought  a  little  second-hand 
but  not  old  book  of  Canadian  songs,  taken  down 
from  the  boatman.  I  can't  suppose  they  will 
satisfy  your  fastidious  taste,  but  approach  my  gift 
in  a  complacent  attitude  please,  at  all  events. 
The  first  in  the  book,  "A  la  claire  Fontaine" 
seems  to  me  pretty — 

"  A  la  claire  fontaine 
M'en  allant  promener, 
J'ai  trouve  I'eau  si  belle 
Que  je  m'y  suis  baigne. 

I'ya    longtcmps    que    je    t'aime, 
Jamais  je  ne  t'oublierai. 

"  Sur  la  plus  haute  branche 
Le  rossignol  chantait, 
Chante,  rossignol,  chante, 
Toi  qui  as  le  ccEur  gai. 
Chante,  rossignol,  chante, 
Toi  qui  as  le  coeur  gai: 
Tu  as  le  coeur  a  rire, 
Moi  je  I'ai-t-a  pleurer. 

"  J'ai  perdu  ma  maitresse 
Sans  pouvoir  la  trouver. 
Pour  un  bouquet  de  roses 
Que  je  lui  refusai. 

I'ya  longtcmps  que  je  t'aime, 

Jamais  je  ne  t'oublierai." 

And  the  tune  of  "A  la  claire  Fontaine''  is  at- 
tractive. 

1P4 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Still  further  did  the  Edinburgh  bookseller 
tempt  me,  and  I  bought  a  collection  of  old 
Scotch  songs.  In  England  the  song-makers  are 
in  want  of  a  "little  language,"  and  the  Scotch 
have  the  better  of  the  southerners  there.  The 
English  are  not  quite  happy  in  diminutives,  and 
to  talk  affectionate  nonsense  it  is  well  to  have 
another  tongue. 

As  to  what  you  said  once  about  the  decorating 
of  English  verse  with  proper  names,  do  you 
know  Drayton's  "Poly-Olbion?"  Look  into 
"Poly-Olbion"  when  you  return  to  Tolcarne. 
You  will  find  it  beside  the  Crashaw  in  the  library. 
Drayton  gives  delightful  pictures  of  birds  and  of 
fishes,  to  say  nothing  of  the  descriptions  of 
"tracts,  rivers,  mountains,  forests,  and  other 
parts  of  this  renowned  isle  of  Great  Britain." 

And  tell  me  this.  Do  you  agree  that  for 
melody  pure  and  simple  there  is  no  English  poet 
that  excels  Crashaw  when  Crashaw  is  at  his 
best?  Do  you  remember  the  lines  entitled 
"Love's  Horoscope,"  and  also  the  "Hymn  of 
the  Nativity"? 

"  Proud  World  (said  I)  cease  your  contest, 
And  let  the  mighty  Babe  alone, 
The  phoenix  builds  the  phoenix'  nest, 

Love's  architecture  is  his  own; 
The  Babe  whose  birth  embraves  this  morn 
Made  His  own  bed  ere  He  was  born." 

The  St.  Teresa  lines,  too,  which  Coleridge  says 
were  in  his  mind  when  writing  the  second  part 

185 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

of  "Christabel,"  have  magic  in  their  cadence. 
And  when  you  are  about  it  tell  me  your  opinion 
of  Henry  Vaughan. 

From  Henry  Vaughan  and  Crashaw,  the  mys- 
tics, my  thoughts  turn  to  Alice  Newton.  Beg 
Margaret  to  go  and  see  her,  or  rather  go  your- 
self. I  think  somehow  she  might  get  on  better 
with  you  than  with  Margaret.  Margaret  is  both 
too  old  and  too  young,  and  therefore  too  literal, 
for  the  dovetailing  of  her  sentiments  with  Alice's. 
Alice  was  never  matter-of-fact,  and  her  troubles 
have  accentuated  her  taste  for  parable  and  meta- 
phor, Vcxccs  du  maUicur  Vavait  fait  en  quclqne  sortc 
visminairc.  That  is  what  Vcxccs  dit  malhcur  is  apt 
to  do  if  it  has  any  thread  of  mysticism  to  work 
upon.  The  Temple  of  Mysticism  and  the  Cave 
of  Adullam  I  always  fancy  in  the  same  street. 

Last  night's  post  brought  me  an  ecstatic  let- 
ter from  Minnie.  "We  are  most  sanguine. 
Everyone  is  as  cordial  as  possible,  and  it  has 
been  quite  a  triumphal  progress  for  Charles.  Mr. 
Baxter"  (the  Tory  candidate  and  Lady  Leyton's 
nephew)  "is  ridiculously  blind  to  the  needs  of 
the  times  and  to  the  fact  that  country  electors 
are  not  fossils.  The  poor  man  seems  to  tread, 
too,  on  everyone's  toes  to  an  extent  that  would 
be  ludicrous  if  it  was  not  pitiable.  I  am  really 
sorry  for  him,  and  his  agent  is  most  unpopular — 
a  regular  tactless  bear."  ...  "I  have  been 
doing  a  lot  myself,  and  am  nearly  dead ;  but  I 
don't  grudge  it  a  bit.  Women  can  do  so  much — 
though  I  must  say  I  think  the  Primrose  League 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

tactics  perfectly  shameful."  Charles,  she  says,  is 
hourly  receiving  most  flattering  telegrams  from 
the  leading  lights  of  the  Radical  party,  "It  does 
not  do,  of  course,  to  be  too  sure,  but  I  have  not 
the  slightest  doubt  myself  that  the  majority  will 
be  enormous.  The  poor  people  are  so  touchingly 
glad  of  sympathy  and  I  am  getting  a  great  deal 
of  'copy.' "  Minnie  winds  up  by  saying  that 
Mrs.  Potters  is  very  kind  and  not  half  as  vulgar 
as  she  looks.  Then  in  came  a  letter  from  Mrs. 
Vivian,  asking  me  if  I  see  my  way  to  going  with 
her  to  Marienbad  next  month.  "Blanche  goes 
to  Norway  on  her  own  account,  and  I  want  some 
one  to  walk  about  with  John.  Come  if  you  can, 
and  I  won't  trouble  to  look  out  for  anyone  else. 
It  would  do  Lady  Etchingham  a  world  of  good 
to  run  her  own  errands  and  shift  for  herself." 
And  this  is  her  view  of  the  Dampshire  election 
case :  "It's  a  comfort  to  reflect  that  Minnie's  time 
for  making  an  idiot  of  herself  is  drawing  to  a 
close,  and  if  that  horrible  Mrs.  Potters  imagines 
that  by  helping  my  daughter  to  do  what  I  abhor 
she  is  getting  herself  asked  to  my  ball  she  will 
be  woefully  disappointed.  .  .  .  The  Ley- 
tons,  fortunately,  are  far  too  sensible  and  kind- 
hearted  to  hold  Minnie's  follies  for  more  than 
they  are  worth ;  still  to  set  herself  down  like  that 
in  the  pocket  of  such  old  friends  of  her  people 
and  do  everything  that  bad  taste  can  devise  is, 
&c.,  &c."  Mrs.  Vivian  goes  on  to  ask  if  I  have 
heard  "that  after  all  Charles's  tirade  against  the 
muzzling  order  and  the  gross  injustice  of  muz- 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

zling  sheep  dogs  and  letting  hounds  go  free,  that 
spiteful  little  Trixy  of  Minnie's  bit  the  baby  of 
the  pet  Socialist  ploughman  and  the  one  'mother' 
that  Minnie  had  really  reason  to  suppose  she  had 
torn  from  the  Primrose  League.  The  'mother' 
sent  to  Lady  Leyton — as  everyone  always  does 
when  in  need — and  Lady  Leyton  sent  a  groom 
in  pursuit  of  the  doctor,  and  the  village  is  going 
solid,  I  hear,  for  George  Baxter."  (Charles  will 
now  sympathise  with  Jem's  canine  curse.)  "The 
child  was  not  really  hurt,  but  that  was  not 
thanks  to  Trixy  or  Minnie.  I  have  told  her  re- 
peatedly he  is  not  to  be  trusted.  The  horrid  lit- 
tle wretch  always  growls  at  Azore,  and  if  the 
dog  were  not  a  saint  he  would  have  killed  him 
ages  ago.  Come  to  Marienbad,  do,  and  take 
John  ofif  my  hands." 

In  one  respect  I  sincerely  commiserate  my 
married  friends.  Half  of  them  seem  to  labour 
under  the  burden  of  fruitless  Sisyphus-like  en- 
deavours to  provide  their  husbands  with  con- 
genial companionship.  The  braiding  of  St. 
Catherine's  tresses  must  be  a  far  less  fatiguing 
task  in  the  long  run.    "Do,  my  dear,  go  and  see 

Mrs. ,  it  would  really  be  a  charity."    "Why 

can't  you  call  upon ?    I  am  sure  she  would 

be  delighted  to  see  you,  and  it  would  give  Rover 
a  walk :  I  can't  send  Elise  out  with  him  to-day,  as 
she  must  finish  my  gown."  Mr.  Vivian  (with 
Azore,  who  requires  regular  exercise)  calls  upon 
us  about  every  fifth  Sunday,  his  whole  de- 
meanour telling  that  he  has  been  driven  to  the 


The  Etchino-ham  Letters 

D 

door  on  the  point  of  the  sword  by  his  wife. 
"Ralph  hasn't  a  friend  in  the  world,"  "Phil  be- 
longs to  three  clubs  and  goes  to  none,"  is  what 
I  constantly  hear. 

Here  is  the  Camelry  wandering  into  the  room 
in  search  of  another  telegraph  form.  "Her  lady- 
ship, M'm,  says  as  I'm  to  telegraph  for  the  minc- 
ing machine.  Her  indigestion  is  getting  that 
dreadful  for  the  toughness  of  the  meat,  and  she 
is  coming  in."  (And  through  a  gap  in  the  privet- 
hedge  I  see,  sure  enough,  the  ferules  of  Laura's 
and  Mrs.  Le  Marchant's  ornate  chiffon  parasols 
approaching  the  house.)  And  here,  too,  is  Cyn- 
thia saying,  and  saying  truly,  that  the  hour  has 
struck  for  which  we  ordered  the  boat.  Good-bye. 

"  I'ya  longtemps  que  je  t'aime, 
Jamais  je  ne  t'oublierai." 

Elizabeth. 

P.S. — Out  of  this  abundance  I  should  like  to 
send  Margaret  flowers,  but  the  wild  roses  and 
bluebells — wise  as  well  as  lovely  things — would 
not  travel. 

II  P.M.  Thursday  (my  letter  did  not  go  to-day 
after  all).  I  have  opened  the  window.  Listen, 
do  you  hear  the  splash  and  swirl  of  the  water? 
Near  the  stepping-stones  there  is  a  birch-tree — 
not  a  willow — "grows  aslant  the  brook,"  and 
over  the  lower  branches  the  river  wli£n  in  flood 
sweeps.  Do  you  see  the  stars?  The  loch  looks 
like    quicksilver    while    touched    by    the    moon- 

189 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

beams.  I  would  like  to  go  out  of  doors.  How 
pleasant  it  will  be  to  be  disembodied  and  to  run 
no  risk  of  hearing,  "What  in  the  world  are  you 
doing  out  at  this  hour?    Aren't  you  afraid  of  the 

damp?     You   always   say   your   throat "     I 

should  like  to  be  a  ghost.  Where  should  I  go, 
I  wonder?  To  see  you?  No,  not  first.  I  should 
go  to  look  for  someone  who  has  not  been  mortal 
for  seven  long  years,  and  with  whom  last  I  stood 
face  to  face  not  very  far  from  here.  ...  I 
have  been  reading  Emily  Bronte's  "Remem- 
brance" to-night,  and  my  fortitude  rather  goes 
to  pieces  after  the  reading  of  it.  The  light  of 
many  of  the  stars  that  we  see  is  their  light  years 
ago,  is  it  not,  and  that  has  taken  time  to  reach 
us?  Is  the  light  that  I  see  in  the  sky  to-night  the 
light  of  that  evening  when  we  (I  don't  mean, 
dear,  you  and  I)  said  good-bye,  good-bye  till  to- 
morrow as  we  thought?     Richard,  .     .     . 

Promise  to  befriend  me  always  and  be  amiable 
when  you  write.  (A  knock  at  the  door.  "Please, 
M'm,  her  ladyship  can't  sleep  nohow.  This 
room's  worse  than  any.  The  bed '">  Good- 
night, Dickory. 


190 


XXVI. 

From  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  83  Hans  Place, 
S.W.,  to  Miss  Eli::abcth  Etchingham,  Glen- 
fearn,  N.B. 

My  dear  Elizabeth, — Margaret  joined  me 
here  yesterday.  She  sends  you  her  best  love, 
and  her  regrets  that  she  could  not  see  you  this 
time.  "But,"  she  adds,  "the  Protector  of  the 
Poor  knows  very  well  that  I  should  not  really 
have  seen  Aunt  Elizabeth  even  if  there  had  been 
room  for  me,  what  with  the  packing  going  on 
and  other  people  coming  in  and  out  and  never 
letting  me  alone."  The  other  people  mean  one 
person,  I  need  not  tell  you.  Margaret  could 
never  abide  Laura.  Well,  I  suppose  the  time  will 
come  when  we  may  really  be  together  for  a  while 
at  least.  Meanwhile  I  console  myself  with  the 
company  of  your  books,  and  am  beginning  to 
make  (or  renew  after  years)  pleasant  acquaint- 
ances among  your  old  friends  in  brown  calf. 
Margaret  has,  of  course,  a  fair  shelf-knowledge 
of  them  already,  and  she'seems'  to  know  some- 
thing of  the  insides  of  a  good  many  of  them  too. 
We  find  a  curious  pleasure  in  being  alone  in  the 
middle  of  the  London  season ;  I  say  "we,"  be- 
cause Margaret  does  not  seem  at  all  anxious  to 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

plunge  into  general  society.  We  .shall  see  our 
own  particular  friends,  and  I  shall  look  up  old 
official  superiors  and  colleagues — in  some  cases 
for  duty,  in  others  for  pleasure ;  otherwise  we 
expect  to  be  pretty  domestic,  and  look  forward 
to  Arthur  coming  up  for  the  Harrow  match  as 
our  greatest  dissipation.  Margaret  pleads  for 
some  concerts,  and,  though  I  have  not  her  musi- 
cal education  or  enthusiasm,  I  shall  be  well 
pleased  to  hear  a  good  European  orchestra. 
During  my  years  of  service  I  have  at  any  rate 
endured  a  sufficient  infinity  of  variations  on 
Tdca  ha  idea  to  feel  that  I  deserve  it. 

Charles  has  been  here  once :  he  rushes  off  to 
Clayshott  whenever  he  can  steal  half  a  day.  He 
is  running  his  head  against  a  brick  wall  so  far  as 
I  can  see ;  but  it  will  give  him  a  certain  claim  on 
his  party  for  services  rendered,  which  may  be 
useful  to  him  in  his  profession  sooner  or  later. 
You  will  know  more  about  the  details  than  I  do, 
as  I  have  in  self-defence  kept  myself  ignorant  of 
even  the  day  of  the  election.  If  I  have  tried  once 
to  explain  to  Minnie  that  the  only  thing  I  can 
do,  not  at  all  sharing  my  brother's  opinions,  is  to 
be  strictly  neutral,  I  have  tried  a  dozen  times; 
while  Harry  has  been  working  hard  to  make  mc 
see  that  it  is  my  duty  as  head  of  the  family  to 
make  a  solemn  i)ublic  protest  against  Charles's 
lamentable  defection  from  sound  principles.  The 
worst  trial  was  when  Minnie  came  here  with  an 
earnest  Radical  lady  who  must  have  bored  Min- 
nie nearly  as  nuich  as  she  did  us ;  that  was  some 

192 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

comfort.  Margaret  put  on  the  air  of  a  very 
simple  country  girl,  and  chaffed  Minnie  by  ask- 
ing innocent  questions  which  the  good  lady  took 
quite  seriously.  Finally,  she  said  with  extreme 
gravity  that  we  found  the  affairs  of  Much  Buck- 
land  so  interesting  and  difficult  that  we  could 
really  spare  no  time  for  general  English  politics. 
As  Minnie's  friend  could  not  deny  the  import- 
ance of  local  self-government,  she  rather  lost  her 
bearings,  and  tried  to  make  a  diversion  by  at- 
tacking me  on  the  Indian  National  Congress. 
Now  it  was  a  little  too  much  to  be  lectured  on 
the  government  of  India  by  a  woman  wholly  ig- 
norant of  the  subject  whom  I  had  never  seen  be- 
fore. "Do  you  know,"  said  I,  "what  are  the  really 
capable  classes  in  India?  Can  you  guess  what 
the  sort  of  Hindus  and  Mahometans  I  have  lived 
among  for  the  last  dozen  years  would  do  with 
your  National  Congress  if  we  let  them?"  "No, 
indeed."  "Take  the  fluent  English  speech-mak- 
ing, English  article-writing  Babus — the  oil-fed 
sons  of  the  quill,  as  Lyall's  old  Pindari  calls  their 
kind — every  man  a  couple,  one  in  each  hand, 
and  chuck  them  into  the  Indian  Ocean."  Mar- 
garet intervened  with  an  offer  of  more  tea,  which 
was  declined.  We  don't  think  Minnie  will  bring 
that  well-meaning  lady  here  again. 

Here  comes  a  letter  from  Jem  which  puts 
Margaret  in  the  seventh  heaven.  It  appears  that 
he  and  Shipley,  months  ago,  got  up  a  little  party 
to  go  to  the  "Ring  des  Nibelungen"  at  Covent 
Garden,  Mrs.  Newton  and  one  or  two  others  be- 

193 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

sides  themselves ;  I  suspect  it  was  in  part  a  little 
conspiracy  to  take  Mrs.  Newton  out  of  herself 
and  her  troubles  if  possible,  for  I  know  that  Jem 
is  an  excellent  fellow,  and  I  don't  know  that  he 
is  a  devoted  Wagnerian,  though  his  tastes  are 
pretty  catholic.  However,  it  now  turns  out  that' 
Jem  is  wanted  at  Oxbridge  to  replace  an  ex- 
aminer who  has  broken  down ;  he  cannot  well  re- 
fuse the  work,  and  it  will  keep  him  there  all 
through  July.  So  he  writes  to  me  to  offer  his 
place  to  Margaret — not  as  a  gift,  so  you  need 
not  begin  to  spin  a  romance ;  besides,  he  is 
sensible  enough  to  know  that  we  should  not  ac- 
cept it  in  that  way.  You  remember  the  elaborate 
plan  we  made  last  year  for  a  meeting  at  Bay- 
reuth,  you  two  from  the  West  and  I  from  the 
East,  by  way  of  Brindisi  or  Trieste,  and  how  dis- 
appointed Margaret  was  when  it  failed,  like  many 
other  neatly  contrived  plans,  chiefly  for  the  com- 
monplace reason  that  it  turned  out  I  could  not 
get  started  for  home  anything  like  soon  enough. 
There  is  no  need  to  tell  you  how  pleased  the 
child  is  now.  She  says  it  is  a  pity  I  can't  go  too ; 
like  most  young  people  who  are  fond  of  their 
parents,  she  would  like  to  educate  me  to  all  her 
tastes,  and  thinks  it  would  be  quite  easy  to  do  it. 
I  tell  her  it  is  no  matter,  and  that  if  she  could 
take  me  she  would  only  find  me  too  old  to  learn. 
It  is  true  I  have  charming  recollections  of  Wag- 
ner's earlier  operas  heard  long  ago  in  Germany, 
before  the  British  public  knew  anything  about 
them,   mi'.cli   less   cared.     But  advanced   Wag- 

194 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

nerians,  I  understand,  put  these  away  as  childish 
things.  Stephen  Leagrave  talks  in  that  way,  not 
that  I  believe  —  or  Margaret  either  —  he  really 
cares  for  music  of  any  school.  Never  mind ;  he 
did  not  hear  "Lohengrin"  at  the  old  Dresden 
Theatre  before  it  was  burnt  down.  Such  mem- 
ories make  one  feel  hugely  old,  but  they  are 
good  all  the  same. 

Leagrave,  by  the  way,  seems  anxious  to  im- 
prove Margaret's  knowledge  of  literature  on  his 
own  correct  and  critical  lines.  No  romance 
about  that  either,  if  you  please ;  it  is  pure  intel- 
lectual benevolence  for  the  good  of  his  neigh- 
bour's mind,  with  a  little  touch  of  vanity  and  the 
natural  hope  that  the  young  may  be  more  teach- 
able than  the  old.  Not  that  it  would  be  human 
nature  for  a  preacher  of  aesthetic  or  any  other 
principles  to  prefer  his  converts  ugly — even 
when  one  has,  like  Stephen,  about  as  little  hu- 
man nature  as  it  is  possible  to  go  through  the 
world  with.  Just  now  he  is  still  dosing  us  with 
Maeterlinck.  We  took  our  revenge  last  night 
by  concocting  a  Maeterlinckian  scene — not  to  be 
shown  to  Stephen,  I  need  not  say,  for  he  would 
be  most  solemnly  and  seriously  aggrieved,  and 
might  feel  bound  to  renounce  our  acquaintance. 
So  I  send  it  you — like  various  other  things — to 
be  out  of  harm's  way. 

I  have  to  go  to  the  Society  of  Arts  to-morrow 
to  support  poor  dear  old  Gritson.  He  has  a 
theory  of  Indian  currency  which  nobody  can  un- 
derstand.   You  see  that  even  in  retirement  one 

195 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

may  still  have  to  sacrifice  oneself  for  the  good 
of  the  service.  When  I  come  back  from  that 
function,  if  not  before,  I  hope  to  be  consoled  by 
a  letter  from  you  telling  me  what  sort  of  estab- 
lishment you  have  made  at  Glenfearn — unless 
Laura  has  taken  a  fancy  to  stop  at  some  other 
health  resort  by  the  way. 

Your  loving  brother, 

DiCKORY. 

Here  follows  the  scene  in  question : 

Le  roi   Lysaor  (trh  z'iciix,  immobile  dans  son 

fautcuil). 
Le  dug  Ypnocrate. 
La  princess  Dilbarine. 
Le  prince  Huglimugh  (enfant). 
La  dame  Eliane,  gouvernante  du  prince. 

Lysaor:     Je  ne  digere  pas  bien.     Je  sens  que  quelque 

chose  va  certainement  se  casser. 
Eliane:     Le  roi  croit  que  quelque  chose  va  se  casser. 
Hugltmugh:     Je    ne    comprends    pas   le    sens    de   ces 

paroles.  Les  grands-percs  disent  toujours  des  choses 

qui  n'ont  pas  de   sens.     Moi,  je   casse  les   choses 

quand  I'envie  m'en  prend. 
Ypnocrate:     O  mon  noant  supreme!  n'es-tu  pas  bien 

heureuse? 
Dilbarine:      Nous    sommcs    bien    heurcux,    effective- 

ment. 
Ypnocrate:       Mon     ame    voit    pourtant     (|uc     tu    es 

inquiete.     Dis-moi  pourquoi  tout  de  suite,  ccla  sera 

plus  simple  pour  I'auditoire. 
Dilbarine:     Je  m'inquictc  parcequc  la  grand'mere  est 

somnambule. 

196 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Ypnocrate:     D'abord  nous  le   sommes  tous.    Puis  tu 

I'as  enfermee  a  clef  dans  sa  chambre. 
Dilbarine:    Elle  aura  certainement  trouve  I'autre  clef. 
Ypnocrate:     Comment  sais-tu  qu'il  y  en  a  une  autre? 
Dilbarine:     Parce  que  I'auteur  en  a  besoin,  6   mon 

abime  tres  precieux. 
Ypnocrate:     Prends  garde  de  dire  ces  choses-la,  nous 

ne  sommes  pas  seuls. 
Dilbarine:     Si  fait,  c'est  a  peu  pres  la  meme  chose. 
Ypnocrate:     Comment!  tu  trouves  que  c'est  la  meme 

chose?     Le  petit  prince  est  tout  oreilles. 
Dilbarine:     Comme  tu  manques  de  foi,  mon  obscurite 

cherie!      Pourquoi    causons-nous    amour    dans    la 

langue  symbolique  du  maitre,  sinon  pour  que  ni  les 

personnages,  ni  le  souffleur,  ni  le  public  n'y  com- 

prennent  rien? 
Ypnocrate:    Et  I'auteur? 
Dilbarine:     Lui  moins  que  personne. 
Ypnocrate:     L'auteur  n'y  comprendrait  rien? 
Dilbarine:     Quand  je   te  dis  que   non!      Cherche  la 

raison  toi-meme. 
Ypnocrate:    Je  cherche  done  .  .  .  oui,  j'y  suis.     C'est 

qu'il    fait    du    symbolisme.      Or    ce    n'est    plus    du 

symbolisme  des  que  quelqu'un  commence  a  y  com- 

prendre  quelque  chose. 
Dilbarine:     Parfait.     Continuous.     Nous  disons  done 

que  je  m'inquiete  de  ce  que  pent  faire  la  grand'- 

mere. 
HuGLiMUGH   (a  la  fenetre):     Ah!  ah!  je  vols  quelque 

chose. 
Eliane:    Le  prince  dit  qu'il  voit  quelque  chose. 
Lysaor:     Une  chose  qui  va  se  casser,  j'en  suis  sur. 
Huglimugh:  Ah!  ah!  que  c'est  drole!    Viola  la  grand'- 

mere  qui  grimpe  sur  le  pigeonnier. 
Eliane:     La  grand'mere  est  sur  le  pigeonnier. 

197 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Dilbarine:     C'est  blen  cela,  la  grand'mere  s'est  evadee 

pour  grimper  sur  le  pigeonnier. 
Huglimugh:  Elle  est  au  faite!     Ah!  ah!  ah!  c'est  bien 

drole  .  .  .  elle  va  sauter  .  .  .  elle  saute  .  .  .  elle 

tombe. 
Elaine:    II  dit  qu'elle  tombe! 
Ypnocrate:    On  dit  qu'elle  tombe! 
Dilbarine:     Evidemment,  il  faut  qu'elle  tombe. 
Huglimugh:    Elle  s'est  casse  le  cou  .  .  .  hou,  hou  .  .  . 

je  n'aime  pas  a  voir  les  gens  qui  se  cassent  le  cou. 
Elaine:    La  grand'mere  s'est  casse  le  cou! 
Ypnocrate:    Elle  s'est  casse  le  cou. 
Dilbarine:    Elle  s'est  bien  casse  le  cou. 
Huglimugh:     Hou,  hou,  hou  .  .  .  j'ai  bien  peur  .  .  . 

c'est  trop  vilain  .  .  .  je  veux  qu'on  interdise  de  se 

casser  le  cou. 
Lysaor:     Je    disais   bien    que    quelqu'un    allait    casser 

quelque  chose.    Je  ne  digere  pas  bien. 


198 


XXVII. 

From  Miss  Elisabeth  Etchingham,  The  Hotel,  Glen- 
fearn,  N.B.,  to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  83 
Hans  Place. 

My  dear  Tolcarne, — (One  must  do  in  Scot- 
land as  Scotland  does.)     Our  letters  crossed — 

"When    letters    cross 
A  double  loss." 

I  meant  to  write  the  very  day  I  heard  from  you, 
my  pen  set  in  motion  by  the  impetus  of  what  I 
read,  but  impediments  that  Laura  would  speak 
of  as  "other  claims"  intervened,  and  then  the 
semi-stupefaction  that  a  very  big  dose  of  the 
open  air  produces  laid  the  spirit  of  scribbling  to 
rest ;  and  here  we  are  at  Sunday  and  no  letter 
has  gone.  I  should  certainly  answer  in  the  nega- 
tive Renan's  question,  "Pent-on  travailler  en  prov- 
incef  In  London,  notwithstanding  countless  in- 
terruptions, I  do  as  much  in  a  day  as  here  I  do 
in  a  week. 

Your  Maeterlinck  has  converted  me  to 
Maeterlinck.  I  find  it  the  missing  link  between 
Maeterlinck  and  life,  and  it  has  led  me  to  a  little 
discovery :  Maeterlinck  is  not  a  symbolist  but  a 
satirist,  and  your  satire  satirises  not  only  Maeter- 
linck but  life.    Read  Maeterlinck  as  a  satirist  and 

199 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

see  how  finely  he  hits  off  the  blunders,  the  blind- 
ness, the  selfishness  of  human  nature  that  pur- 
sues its  own  ends  and  clings  to  its  own  aims 
through  thick  and  thin,  light  and  darkness, 
virtue  and  sin.  I  find,  too,  a  likeness  between 
Maeterlinck  and  the  Book  of  Job.  Maeterlinck's 
characters  play  the  part  of  Job's  comforters  one 
to  another  adroitly.  "Your  soul  was  never  so 
beautiful  as  since  I  have  broken  your  heart."  "I 
am  glad  that  my  soul  is  so  beautiful  since  you 
have  broken  my  heart."  In  irony  and  humour 
surely  Maeterlinck  touches  high  water-mark? 
But  if  to  read  Maeterlinck  as  humorist  and 
satirist  contrasts  too  violently  with  your  former 
attitude,  read  this  pseudo-Maeterlinck  as  a  satire 
on  life  not  Maeterlinck,  and  see  how  well  my 
theory  works. 

There  is  always  a  someone  who  announces 
"Jc  ne  digcre  pas  bien,"  when  his  wife  or  someone 
comes  to  grief.  There  is  always  a  wiseacre,  after 
the  event,  to  declare  "Jc  disais  bicn  que  quclqirun 
allait  casscr  quclque  chose,"  be  the  quelque  chose" 
what  it  may,  from  a  tea-cup  to  a  bank.  There  is 
always  an  infant,  young  in  intellect,  if  not  in 
years,  who  finds  the  first  act  of  a  tragedy  "bicn 
drole,"  and  wishes  that  the  last  act  of  a  tragedy 
had  been  forbidden ;  and  there  is  always  another 
key  to  unlock  the  door  that  leads  to  destruction 
if  Fate,  the  author,  has  need  of  it.  As  to  repeti- 
tion, the  old  "Oxford  Spectator,"  whose  wit  I 
only  made  acquaintance  with  lately,  may  say  that 
"the  repeated  assertion  of  an  insignificant  fact 

200 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

tends  to  weaken  and  finally  to  destroy  the  mind;" 
but  I  don't  know.  Nature  has  vast  recuperative 
power,  and  the  repeated  assertion  of  an  insignifi- 
cant and  significant  fact  is  going  on  all  round, 
and  has  doubtless  gone  on  since  time  began. 
Eve,  probably  never  to  the  day  of  her  death,  fell 
into  low  spirits  but  that  she  asked  Adam  if  the 
affair  of  the  apple  had  not  been  very  unfortunate, 
and  Adam  assuredly  answered  a  thousand  times, 
"Yes,  Eve,  it  w^as  very  unfortimate." 

By  all  means  draw  Alice  Newton  back  into  the 
world  if  you  can.  She  probably  feels  more  at  ease 
and  also  less  down-hearted  with  comparative 
strangers  than  with  people  who  have  looked  into 
the  four  corners  of  her  existence.  In  certain 
frames  of  mind  it  is  a  relief  to  be  with  the  folk 
who  know  nothing  and  care  less  about  one's 
worries.  Not  that  Alice  would  find  this  indiffer- 
ence in  you,  but  still  you  are  not  knit  into  her 
past,  and  your  role  in  regard  to  her  is  not  that 
of  memorandum.  You  must  make  haste  and  get 
her  out  of  her  fastness  and  out  of  herself  before 
Colonel  Newton  returns.  Once  he  is  at  home 
again,  an  intangible  something  will  come  down 
and  separate  her  from  realities.  Is  it  wicked  to 
wish  that  Colonel  Newton  might  be  removed  to 
another  sphere?  Yet  I  am  sorry  for  him,  for  I 
believe  he  has  still,  in  his  unpleasant  way,  far 
more  afifection  for  her  than  she  ever  had  for  him, 
and  the  one  who  cares  least,  when  it  comes  to 
extremities,  has  really  the  best  of  it.  And  then 
the  poor  man  gets  no  pity.    His  affections  may 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

be  blighted,  but  as  he  grows  more  hectoring,  as 
well  as  fatter  and  redder,  day  by  day,  he  does  not 
win  a  scrap  of  sympathy.  So,  though  he  is  what 
Harry  calls  an  ill-conditioned  brute  (he  is  hated 
in  the  service,  Harry  says),  I  think  the  ill-con- 
ditioned brute  has  had  his  bad  moments,  poor 
wretch. 

Is  Margaret  to  be  painted?  And  if  so,  by 
whom?  Everybody  has  been  painted  already,  I 
am  inclined  to  say,  and  so  why  not  let  well  alone? 
Everybody  has  been  painted  that  is,  but  the 
painting  is  not  always,  or  often,  in  the  posses- 
sion of  the  original,  or  the  original's  family.  If  it 
were  so  your  portrait  by  Titian  would  not  be  in 
the  gallery  at  Florence,  but  in  the  cedar-room  at 
Tolcarne.  Margaret's  counterfeit  presentment 
hangs  in  the  Louvre.  After  Leonardo,  who  need 
trouble  to  paint  her?  Mrs.  Vivian's  picture  is 
labelled  Mrs.  Hanslowe,  and  accredited  to 
Cornelius  Jansen,  and  I  used  to  wish  for  no  bet- 
ter likeness  of  Alice  Newton  than  Sir  Joshua's 
Nelly  O'Brien.  But  she  has  gone  away  from  her 
former  portrait  and  might  sit  for  her  own  ghost. 
Sant  has  set  the  full  face  of  our  worthy  Laura 
upon  canvas,  as  I  have  already  said,  and  for  her 
profile  what  do  you  think  of  the  portrait  of 
Simonetta  Vespucci  at  Florence,  of  which  the 
guide  books  rightly  say,  "c'cst  nne  ccuvrc  qui  n'a 
pas  iin  grand  charmed 
Z'  Monday. — "T//a  na  ncbW  a'  dol  an  truimead," 
which  translated  from  the  Gaelic  into  the  vulgar 
tongue  means  the  clouds  are  becoming  heavier. 


The  Etchingham  Letters 


\ 


Which  translated  from  the  vulgar  tongue  into 
Etchinghamese  means  that  Laura  has  put  on  her 
bonnet.  Which  idiom  is  closely  related  to  the 
phrase  of  the  Mont  Blanc  guides,  '7/  met  son 
bonnet,"  when  they  see  the  little  cloud  on  the 
mountain-top,  the  little  cloud  that  foretells  a 
storm. 

Yes,  Laura  certainly  has  put  on  her  metaphor- 
ical bonnet.  She  has  had  it  out  of  the  bandbox 
since  the  day  of  our  arrival,  and  she  clapped  it  on 
for  good  and  all,  I  fear,  yesterday  during  dinner, 
when  the  waiter  from  Aber-r-r-r-r-deen  en- 
tangled the  cruet-stand  in  her  hair,  and  a  fellow- 
lodger  of  doubtless  blameless  character,  but  per- 
haps unpolished  manners,  whose  conversational 
overtures  she  had  sternly  rebuffed,  joined  with 
the  waiter  in  his  efforts  to  free  that  ram — the 
cruet-stand — from  that  thicket — Laura's  tresses  : 
"Let  me  redd  it  for  y're  Leddyship.  He's  just 
ravelin't  mair."  Poor  Laura,  it  was  indeed  a  sight 
to  see  her  while  the  hands  of  the  waiter  from 
Aber-r-r-r-r-deen  and  Mr.  Dugald  McTavish, 
from  Dundee,  met  in  her  nut-brown  locks.  The 
waiter,  in  his  philanthropic  anxiety  to  relieve 
Laura  of  the  undesirable  cruet,  held  the  sauce- 
boat  at  an  angle  at  which,  unless  the  laws  of 
gravity  had  been  altered  to  save  a  gown,  the 
melted  butter  could  do  nothing  but  form  a  cas- 
cade down  Mrs.  Le  Marchant's  neat  silken  back. 
"Damisht  ye.  Doe  ye  think  a  get  butter  for 
naething?"  was  Mr.  McPhail's  sotto-vocc  ejacu- 
lation from  where  he  stood  by  the  sideboard ;  and 

203 


The  Etchino;ham  Letters 

no  one  was  pleased  but  two  rude  bicycling  boys, 
whose  laughter  was  loud  and  long. 

I  wish  you  would  write  upon  a  postcard,  "I 
trust  Glenfearn  is  not  too  bracing  for  Laura," 
and  I  would  let  it  lie  about  in  noticeable  places. 
Without  some  such  wile  the  unfortunate  Camelry 
and  myself  will  soon  be  in  the  thick  of  the  trans- 
port business  again,  for  Laura's  present  griev- 
ance is  that  this  air  is  enervating. 

Why  is  it  my  lot  in  life  to  be  for  ever  thrown 
with  persons  whose  need  of  bracing  is  insatiable? 
I,  to  whom  no  summer  heat  but  that  of  a  city 
proves  enervating,  no  climate  relaxing,  find  the 
thread  of  existence  inextricably  tangled  with  that 
of  folk  to  whom,  did  one  take  them  at  their  word, 
the  proximity  of  icebergs  is  comforting,  and 
who  fail  to  distinguish  between  the  summer  tem- 
perature of  the  Highlands  and  that  of  the  Black 
Hole  of  Calcutta.  In  Laura  we  have  a  perfect 
specimen  of  the  ever-enervated  type.  She  is 
parched  when  the  sun  shines.  The  sense  of  suf- 
focation is  here  continually.  Her  fate  is  it  to  feel 
"oppressed  by  the  terrible  heat,"  "overpowered 
by  the  sultriness,"  "unnerved  by  the  airlessness," 
"unable  to  creep  even  as  far  as  the  post-olifice." 
She  broils,  she  is  in  a  vapour-bath,  she  burns, 
she  pants,  she  likens  Glenfearn  to  a  furnace,  she 
finds  the  weather  stifling,  "so  airless  that  a  thun- 
derstorm must  be  innninent,"  "absolutely  torrid," 
"perfectly  tropical" — in  fact,  Cynthia  and  I  pass  a 
considerable  portion  of  our  time  wondering  why 
calcined  or  liquefied  remains  are  not  all  that  is 

204 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

left  to  a  mourning  world  of  her.  It  really  is 
amazing,  when  you  come  to  think  of  it,  that  un- 
singed  and  unscalded  she  passed  through  the 
kilns  and  caldrons  that  await  the  unwary  between 
King's  Cross  and  Princes  Street. 

The  climate  of  the  West  Highlands  cannot,  I 
allow,  be  characterised  as  bracing,  but  it  is 
balmy,  which  I  think  better,  and  I  feel  disposed 
to  beg  the  people  with  whom  we  come  in  contact 
not  to  speak  in  Laura's  hearing  disparagingly  of 
the  place  from  the  atmospheric  standpoint.  "Tell 
her  that  she  will  be  braced,  if  only  she  will  have 
patience,"  is  your  sister's  latest  form  of  prayer, 
and  most  amiably  it  has  been  acceded  to.  Mr. 
Dugald  McTavish,  when  a  new-comer  at  the 
hotel,  however,  gave  me  a  scare.  Overhearing 
from  the  other  side  of  the  dinner-table  Laura 
complain  of  enervation,  he  exclaimed  emphati- 
cally "Braemar's  the  place  for  ye.  Mum,  if  ye 
want  to  be  set  up."  I  seized  the  first  occasion 
that  offered  to  hint  that  the  family  generally  did 
not  want  to  be  "set  up" ;  that  "setting  up"  would 
kill  Cynthia  and  me  probably,  and  later  he  very 
cannily  informed  Laura  that  "there's  sic  a  throng 
o'  folk  at  Braemar  that  ye  leddyship  micht  na  get 
bed  or  meat."  Picture  Laura  to  yourself  "na 
getting  bed  or  meat."  I  have  heard  no  more  of 
a  move  to  Braemar. 

(On  one  point  I  have  quite  made  up. my  mind. 
Before  I  travel  with  you  I  will  have  it  in  writing 
that  your  idea  of  a  "thorough  change"  is  not  a 
sojourn  in  a  refrigerator,  and  that  in  your  vocab- 

205 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

ulary  bracing  air  is  not  synonymous  with  the  air 
of  Paradise.) 

To  our  landlord's  delight,  the  inn  garden,  "a 
fine  place  for  sitting  in  the  Sabbath,"  still  remains 
Laura's  and  Mrs.  Le  Marchant's  favourite  re- 
treat. Their  extreme  civility  to  one  another  is  a 
matter  of  astonishment  to  me.  They  yesterday 
talked  for  an  hour  of  "The  Christian"  and  "Hel- 
beck  of  Bannisdale,"  and  so  excessive  was  their 
politeness  and  so  guarded  the  expression  of  their 
opinions  that  to  the  end  it  was  never  brought 
home  to  them  that  they  were  not  discussing  the 
self-same  book. 

Cynthia  is  melancholy,  truly,  but  it  is  the 
pretty  "white  melancholy"  from  which  she  suf- 
fers, not  the  ugly  black  kind.  It  turns  her  to  the 
reading  of  Shakespeare,  and  to  sitting  upon  the 
floor  with  her  head  against  my  knee  when  she 
ought  to  be  going  to  bed.  She  recognised,  even 
sooner  than  I  did,  the  handwriting  of  a  letter, 
from  Harry  to  me,  that  we  found  laid  upon  the 
"parlour"  table  when  we  came  in  from  a  long 
drive  this  afternoon. 

So  far  Laura  seems  unable  to  get  Sir  Augustus 
out  of  her  head.  She  tells  me  now  that  Mrs.  Le 
Marchant,  who  she  finds  knows  him,  says  his 
mother  was  of  "very  good  family,"  and  that,  on 
the  distaff  side  of  the  house,  he  has  Plantagcnet 
and  Stuart  blood  in  his  veins.  Cynthia  has  learnt 
this  from  her,  also,  apparently.  Remember  that 
we  did  not  solve  the  problem  of  the  family's  fu- 

206 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

ture,  though  we  did  talk  for  about  six  hours  daily 
while  you  were  in  Hans  Place.  Laura  looks  mys- 
terious and  Cynthia  tearful  when  I  speak  of  their 
setting  up  house  together.  I  can't  make  out  what 
Laura  wants,  or  with  whom  she  would  ordain  to 
live.  Things  may  settle  themselves,  she  says.  To 
her  hufifs  and  misunderstandings  are  not  as  in- 
tolerable as  they  are  to  me.  I  think,  if  for  any 
reason  best  known  to  themselves  people  can't  live 
in  peace  and  amity  together,  they  had  best  live 
apart,  but  this  opinion  is  by  no  means  univer- 
sally held.  Yet  in  various  ways  Laura  is  not  un- 
amiable.  If  she  married  my  father  for  the  place 
— the  "situation" — she  nursed  him  with  the 
greatest  possible  assiduity,  and  she  is  really 
good-natured,  quite  lavish  in  fact  to  Cynthia  in 
the  matters  of  frocks  and  fairings.  Cynthia's 
drawing-room  attire  was  ordered  with  a  magnifi- 
cent disregard  of  the  bill,  and  did  I  develop  con- 
sumption or  cretinism  she  would  do  her  duty  to 
the  bitter  end.  But  while  I  am  neither  bodily 
nor  mentally  afiflicted  to  any  unusual  extent  we 
shall  never  hit  it  ofif.  We  don't  agree  about  one 
of  the  trivialities  that  go  to  make  existence.  In 
the  matter  of  domestic  economy,  for  instance,  she 
fears  big  economies,  and  small  economies  fret 
me.  To  be  carriageless  I  find  a  bearable  priva- 
tion, but  to  hear  the  cook's  aptitude  for  consum- 
ing lard  incessantly  lamented  is  to  me  a  bore. 
Laura  could  not  metaphorically  hold  faster  to  the 
brougham  were  she  a  limpet  and  the  carriage  a 
rock,  and  she  enjoys  the  lard  lamenting — "the 

207 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

waking  of  the  lard,"  as  Harry,  who  once  over- 
heard her  wails,  termed  the  proceeding.  Then 
our  tastes  are  every  bit  as  incalculable  to  her  as 
are  hers  to  us.  I  told  you,  did  not  I,  that  with- 
out malice  prepense,  with  the  air  rather  of  a  per- 
son conferring  a  favour,  she  suggested  not  long 
ago  that  we  should  have  a  permanent  "Day,"  and 
deface  our  paste-board  with  "At  home,Tuesdays, 
^-y" ;  and  I  had  accused  myself  of  an  indecent 
display  of  dislike  for  what  Harry  calls  the  viola- 
tion of  territory  and  bore  raids  to  which  we  are 
subjected.  (We  have  no  "close  time,"  he  says.) 
Laura  with  benignant  smile  proposing  the  ab- 
horred "Day"  as  a  peace-ofTering  reminds  me  for 
incongruity  of  the  London  young  lady  of  eight- 
eenth-century fame,  who  collected  all  the  chicken 
bones  upon  her  plate  as  a  delicacy  for  her 
brother's  horse. 

I  wish  you  could  see  the  Glenfearn  wild-flower 
and  fern  show.  Great  splendid  foxgloves  rise 
up  from  dim  green  shelters,  and  Pan  does  some 
of  his  most  attractive  meadow-gardening  with 
pansies — 

"  The  little  western  flower, 
Before  milk-white,  now  purple  with  love's  wounds, 
And  maidens  call  it  love-in-idleness  " 

should  ])c  the  little  northern  flower.  In  free 
blossoming  and  in  intensity  of  colour  the  pansies 
of  these  northern  meadows  beat  their  cousins  of 
the  west  hollow. 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

To-morrow's  "Scotsman"  will  give  Charles's 
fate,  I  suppose.  "My  ladies  want  the  'Scotch- 
man,' "  is  the  form  in  which  Blake  persists  in 
asking  for  the  paper.  "Is  the  war  any  better?" 
she  inquired,  when  I  was  last  reading  the  war 
news.  Good  Heavens !  What  a  din !  Really 
Mr.  McPhail  should  be  broken  of  beating  his 
dinner  gong  with  a  violence  that  might  be 
deemed  excessive  had  he  resolved  to  awaken  the 
dead.  But  to  him  it  is  a  "gran  sound."  "If  it's 
owre  muckle  for  ye,  put  tow  in  yer  lugs,"  he  said 
to  a  nervous  old  gentleman  suffering  from  in- 
somnia, who  expostulated  the  other  day.  Lugs 
=  ears. 

Lover  of  strange  tongues,  I  sign  myself  in  the 
Gaelic. 

Ealasaid. 


209 


XXVIII. 

From  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Hans  Place,   to 
Miss  Elisabeth  Etchingham,  Glen f cam,  N.B. 

My  dear  Elizabeth  (or  whatever  you  make 
of  it  in  the  GaeHc), — Verily  it  must  have  been  a 
spectacle  worthy  of  kings  and  poets  to  see  that 
Aberdonian  waiter  realising  the  Persian  figure  of 
speech  for  supreme  ecstasy,  "one  hand  on  the 
cup" — read  cruet — "and  one  hand  in  the  locks 
of  the  Beloved."  The  genuineness  of  the  back 
hair  is,  I  believe,  undisputed. 

Charles  is  handsomely  beaten,  as  you  will  have 
seen  by  this  time,  if  indeed  you  take  any  note  of 
Southron  by-elections.  But  he  will  not  be  incon- 
solable. He  is  the  hero  of  paragraphs  in  the  Op- 
position papers,  which  prove  to  the  satisfaction 
of  the  writer,  and  I  suppose  his,  that  it  was  a 
moral  victory ;  he  has  fought  the  election  in  a 
highly  creditable  and  orthodox  manner,  if  not 
with  much  wisdom  of  the  serpent ;  in  short,  he 
has  done  everything  a  still  rising  political  lawyer 
ought  to  do  to  establish  a  claim  on  the  party, 
without  going  to  such  extremes  as  to  be  in  any- 
one else's  black  books.  Minnie  goes  about  say- 
ing that  the  South  of  England  is  hopelessly 
stupid,  and  wants  him  to  begin  cultivating  a 
northern  constituency  this  very  Long  Vacation ; 

210 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

which  might  be  a  judicious  proceeding  if  he 
could  go  without  her.  I  think  he  will  leave  it 
alone  for  the  present. 

The  old  Canadian  boat-song  is  pleasing.  I 
suppose  the  French  colonists  carried  with  them 
the  tradition  of  the  simple  popular  ballads  which 
Moliere  immortalised  by  one  specimen  in  "Le 
Misanthrope :" 

"  Si  le  roi  m'avoit  donne 

Paris,  sa  grandVille, 
Et  qu'il  me  fallut  quitter 
L'amour  de  ma  mie: 
Je  dirois  au  Roi  Henri, 
Reprenez  votre  Paris: 
J'aime  mieux  ma  mie,   oh  gay! 
J'aime  mieux  ma  mie." 

A  simple  thing  enough,  as  Alceste  says  after  his 
first  recital  of  it : 

"La  rime  n'est  pas  riche,  et  le  style  en  est  vieux." 

But  what  an  exquisite  turn  of  Moliere's  art  to 
make  him  repeat  it  once  more,  and  what  a  treat 
it  was  in  the  days  now  past  to  hear  the  double 
delivery  of  those  lines  by  Bressant,  rising  at  the 
end  to  a  solemn  triumphal  dignity,  the  everlast- 
ing protest  of  a  gentleman  of  the  old  school 
against  ephemeral  frivolity!  Perhaps  it  was  a 
little  too  impressive  for  dramatic  probability. 
Bressant's  Alceste  would  have  swept  the  pedants 
and  fribbles  out  of  the  room.  Delaunay  made 
more,  I  think,  of  the  real  humanity  of  Alceste; 
he  was  the  man  who  would  be  sympathetic  if  any 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

of  those  about  him  would  show  something  de- 
serving of  his  sympathy.  Bressant  was  incom- 
parable in  the  majesty  of  high  comedy,  unbend- 
ing to  generous  humour  or  touched  with  tragedy 
as  the  action  demands.  One  of  the  most  tragic 
things  I  ever  heard  was  his  delivery  of  the  last 
words  in  "Les  Caprices  de  Marianne:"  "Je  ne 
vous  aime  pas,  Marianne,  c'etait  Coelio  qui  vous 
aimait." 

If  there  be  poetic  justice  for  good  artists  in 
Elysium,  Bressant  should  be  expounding  the 
glories  of  French  comedy — or  rather  la  Comedie 
Franqais — to  Charles  Lamb,  who  had  no  chance 
of  knowing  them  in  this  world,  and  Shakespeare 
and  Musset  should  be  in  the  front  row.  The 
Musset  of  "Comedies  et  Proverbes"  I  mean ; 
never  mind  the  vexed  question  where  his  poetry 
ought  to  rank.  Why  don't  I  see  Victor  Hugo  in 
that  front  row?  Because  I  doubt  whether  the 
same  row  would  hold  him  and  Shakespeare.  The 
old  man  was  so  cock-sure  that  he  knew  all  about 
Shakespeare ;  and  then  he  would  want  Shake- 
speare's views  on  the  universe  and  the  wicked- 
ness of  kings,  and  I  don't  think  William  would 
relish  that  sort  of  conversation  between  the  acts. 

M.  Delaunay  lives  in  honoured  retirement, 
and,  I  believe,  still  imparts  the  traditions  of  the 
good  school  of  acting  to  the  younger  generation. 
We  old  folk  shall  never  believe  the  new  comers 
can  be  as  good,  for  all  that  even  a  Delaunay  can 
teach  them :  but  we  may  be  wrong,  and  anyhow 
we  don't  mean  to  despair  of  France  while  the 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Theatre  Frangais  flourishes,  or  while  the  College 
de  France  can  show  scholars  like  James  Darme- 
steter — the  man  who  came  out  to  India  and  got 
to  know  the  Afghans  as  no  Englishman  knew 
them.  I  wrote  to  you  about  him  when  I  met  him 
on  the  frontier.  Let  us  see  what  Shipley  says, 
having  studied  for  his  own  purposes  in  Paris  (he 
has  just  called  to  settle  the  dining-out  arrange- 
ments for  the  Ri}ig  week).  "French  degenera- 
tion?" answers  he,  as  nearly  snorting  as  an  amia- 
ble man  can.  "I  know  nothing  about  French 
politics,  but  I  shall  begin  to  talk  about  France 
being  degenerate  when  we  have  learnt  at  the 
Record  Office  half  the  things  they  can  teach  us 
at  the  Ecole  des  Chartes."  Don't  ask  me,  my 
dear  Elizabeth,  what  the  Ecole  des  Chartes  is. 
First,  because  I  do  not  clearly  know,  and  next 
because  you  had  better  wait  till  you  can  ask 
Shipley,  who  has  been  there.  Something  at  the 
back  of  my  head  tells  me  that  we  may  possibly 
come  to  see  a  good  deal  more  of  him.  It  would 
be  with  my  good  will.  Not  a  word  to  anyone  if 
you  take  my  meaning,  for  it  is  only  a  dim  sur- 
mise. I  like  the  man  much,  especially  when  I 
can  get  him  disengaged  from  our  mixed  visitors. 
Alixed  they  are  just  now  more  than  usual,  be- 
ing all  full  of  grievances  or  projects  of  their  own, 
and  each  with  only  half  an  ear  for  anything  else. 
Minnie  bemoans,  as  aforesaid,  the  darkness  of 
the  Clayshott  division,  while  Leagrave  congratu- 
lates himself — meaning  a  little  to  include  the 
world,  though  he  does  not  say  so — upon  that 

213 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

long-promised  monograph  on  Drake  being  off 
his  hands.  Now  he  wants  to  turn  to  something 
hterary,  a  lesser  light  of  the  seventeenth  century 
for  choice.  It  is  rather  embarrassing  for  Mar- 
garet to  have  to  find  an  opinion  whether  Cow- 
ley or  Henry  More  would  be  more  suitable.  It 
is  useless  in  such  a  case  to  tell  our  excellent 
Stephen  that  you  have  read  very  little  of  the  one 
author  and  not  a  word  of  the  other.  He  only 
goes  on  as  if  he  did  not  believe  you.  Harry,  who 
is  our  usual  resource  on  these  occasions — hav- 
ing a  military  and  official  faculty  of  looking  re- 
spectfully intelligent  whenever  required — is  him- 
self engrossed  in  endeavouring  to  get  sent  to 
Egypt.  He  says  he  is  afraid  of  becoming  a  mere 
pen-and-ink  soldier  if  he  does  not  go  back  to  see- 
ing the  stuff  his  work  is  made  of ;  anyhow,  he  is 
pressing  for  something  that  will  take  him  to  the 
front,  and,  as  his  superiors  are  well  pleased  with 
him,  I  should  think  he  is  likely  to  get  it.  A  fresh 
parting  just  when  we  are  all  (comparatively)  to- 
gether would  be  some  disappointment — but  we 
have  always  held  in  this  family  that  we  owe  our- 
selves to  the  Queen  and  the  country,  and  if  the 
best  work  Harry  can  do  for  the  Queen  and  the 
country  is  up  the  Nile,  we  must  not  say  a  word 
that  could  make  his  going  less  cheerful. 

Your  pet  minor  English  poets  seem  to  be 
either  at  Tolcarne  or  (as  I  suspect)  carried  off  by 
you  to  the  parts  of  the  North :  I  have  not  found 
them  here.  So  I  have  nothing  to  say  of  them 
just  now.    The  other  day  I  spoke  of  Leconte  de 

214 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Lisle's  handling  of  proper  names  ;  one  of  his  best 
performances  that  way  is  in  "La  Paix  des 
Dieux,"  which  still  sleeps,  I  believe,  in  a  Revue 
dcs  Deux  Mondes  ten  years  old.*  The  spirit  of 
man  calls  up  before  him  all  the  gods  he  has  ever 
worshipped : 

"Et  I'Hote  interieur  qui  parlait  de  la  sorte 
Au  gouffre  ouvert  de  Tame  et  des  temps  revolus 
Evoqua  lentement,  dans  leur  majeste  morte, 
Les  apparitions  des  Dieux  qui  ne  sont  plus." 

With  submission  to  the  judgment  of  native- 
born  French  ears,  I  know  nothing  in  modern 
poetry  to  surpass  the  solemn  cadence  of  these  last 
two  lines — but  I  was  coming  to  the  procession  of 
the  gods.  There  is  something  Miltonic  in  the  se- 
quence of  strange  imposing  names,  with  just 
enough  adjective  and  explanation  to  colour  them. 
Leconte  de  Lisle,  being  a  pagan  and  a  Hellenist, 
had  no  love  for  Semitic  deities,  and  cannot  be 
said  to  have  treated  them  civilly ;  this  is  how  he 
marches  them  on : 

"Et  tons  les  Baalim  des  nations  farouches: 
Le  Molok,  du  sang  frais  de  I'enfance  abreuve, 
Halgah,  Gad,  et  Phegor,  et  le  Seigneur  des  mouches, 
Et  sur  les  Kheroubim  le  sinistre  lahve." 

He  goes  right  back  over  the  brilliant  philoso- 
phy of  the  half-Greek  Alexandrians  and  the  ex- 
pansive moral  reform  of  the  Prophets  to  the  sav- 
age old  thunder-god  who  came  down  from  Sinai 

*[It  is   now    (1899)    reprinted   in  a   volume   entitled 
Dernier' s  Poemes.] 

21S 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

to  war  with  Chemosh  and  Baal  and  overthrow 
Dagon,  as  they  tell  of  him  in  the  rugged  frag- 
ments embedded  in  Judges  and  Genesis,  so  old 
that  the  pious  post-exilic  editors  dared  not 
smooth  off  their  asperities ;  the  Lord  who  cap- 
tained his  own  battles,  and  would  now  chastise 
his  unruly  children,  now  argue  with  them  and 
jest  with  them,  like  a  modern  frontier  leader 
managing  Afridis  in  about  the  same  stage  of 
tribal  education.  Modern  respectability  has  for- 
gotten him,  and  made  unto  itself  a  comfortable 
benevolent  monarch,  a  sort  of  chairman  of  bank 
directors,  author  of  the  Economy  of  Nature  and 
other  valuable  works  —  a  lahvc-Pignoiif  one 
might  call  him  in  Flaubertian  language.  What 
would  the  tellers  of  those  wild  stories  of  palace 
treasons  and  feud  and  murder  in  the  Books  of 
Kings  have  thought  of  a  peaceful  rustic  congre- 
gation sitting  in  an  English  church  to  hear  them 
droned  out  as  First  Lessons,  and  taking  them  in 
a  hypnotised  fashion  as  something  which  must 
somehow  be  edifying  to  modern  readers,  since 
it  is  in  the  Bible?  But  the  H&brews  have  not 
forgotten  the  old  Lord  of  Hosts,  except  maybe 
some  who  have  become  too  prosperous.  Heine 
had  not  when  he  put  those  lines  into  the  mouth 
of  an  unsavory  Spanish  rabbi  combating  a  no 
less  unsavory  monk : 

"  Unser  Gott  ist  nicht  die  Liebe, 
Schabeln  ist  nicht  seine  Sache, 
Denn  cr  ist  ein  Donnergott 
Unci  er  ist  ein  Gott  der  Rache. 

216 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

"  Unser  Gott,  der  ist  lebendig 
Und  in  seiner  Himmelshalle 
Existiret  er  drauf  los 
Durch  die  Ewigkeiten  alle." 

Talk  of  German  being  an  unmanageable  lan- 
guage !  What  writer  in  what  language  has  bet- 
tered the  feat  of  achieving  a  grand  poetical  effect 
with  a  dry  abstract  word  like  cxistren?  But  we 
are  insular  in  prose  only  less  than  in  poetry,  and 
in  poetry  only  less  than  in  theology.  And  in  the 
fine  arts? — no,  that  is  where  our  chance  of  salva- 
tion seems  to  come  in.  But  I  begin  to  ramble 
unconscionably :  the  letting  out  of  waters  in  the 
season  of  freedom  long  deferred.  Old  Indians 
ramble  about  Service  shop,  my  young  friends 
brutally  tell  me,  when  other  topics  fail  them ;  and 
probably  I  talk  nonsense.  Leagrave  would  stick 
all  this  full  of  his  critical  pins  in  five  minutes. 
Therefore  I  write  not  to  Leagrave,  but  to  a  sis- 
ter full  of  wisdom  and  toleration. 

Talking  of  pictures,  Margaret  will  be  painted 
— when  we  are  rich  and  you  will  catch  me  the 
ideal  painter.  What  is  that  about  a  Leonardo  in 
the  Louvre?  She  does  not  set  up  to  be  like 
Mona  Lisa,  and  I  forget  the  looks  of  the  other 
Leonardos  there,  if  Leonardo's  handiwork  they 
be :  there  are  not  too  many  real  ones  in  the 
world. 

Your  loving  brother, 

TOLCARNE. 


217 


XXVIIIa. 

(Postca7'd.) 

Glad  to  hear  you  are  well  settled  in  the  North, 
but  don't  presume  on  the  climate.  Neither  you 
nor  L.  find  it  too  bracing,  I  hope.  Is  it  not  liable 
to  sudden  changes?    All  well  here. 

R.  E. 


218 


XXIX. 

From  Miss  Elisabeth  Etchingham,  the  Hotel,  Glen- 
fearn,  N.B.,  to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  83 
Hans  Place. 

Dearest  Dickory, — "Earthquakes  as  usual," 
or  Laura-quakes,  if  you  object  to  hyperbole. 

What  is  the  meaning  of  Annosus?  A  telegram 
came  yesterday,  addressed  Etchingham,  signed 
Leagrave,  and  consisting  of  one  word — An- 
nosus. We  none  of  us  knew  what  it  meant.  Laura, 
who,  since  Mr.  McTavish's  expressions  of  inter- 
est in  her  "setting  up"  and  her  "getting  bed  and 
meat,"  has  smiled  more  or  less  upon  him  ("not 
of  course,  like  ourselves,  but  a  very  worthy,  well- 
meaning  man"),  passed  the  cryptic  and,  as  we 
supposed,  "Unicode"  communication  on  to  him 
as  a  last  resort.  Mr.  McTavish  laid  down  his 
fishing  tackle,  the  sound  of  the  winding  of  the 
reel  ceased,  and  he  thought  he  had  a  copy  of  the 
"Unicode"  "aboot"  him.  And  so  he  had,  and 
straightway  went  on  to  announce  in  matter-of- 
fact  tones  that  Annosus  signified,  "Twins  both 
dead,  mother  not  expected  to  live." 

Here  was  unlooked-for  news  upon  a  fine  sum- 
mer morning,  and  Laura,  of  course,  was  terribly 
unnerved  at  once.    The  fact  that  for  all  our  en- 

219 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

deavour  we  could  not  place  the  disaster,  of  which 
the  transmitter  was,  we  supposed,  Stephen, 
hardly  served  to  compose  her.  Mr.  McTavish's 
"It  may  be  no  true,"  our  landlord's  "Deed  I've 
heard  o'  waur  happenin',"  and  the  "Na!  Davy, 
that  ye  ne'er  heard  o' "  of  kind  Mrs.  McPhail 
(kind,  save  when  the  integrity  of  her  drains  is 
questioned),  were  intermingled  with  Laura's 
sighs,  shivers,  and  awe-struck  utterances  ex- 
pressive of  the  unexpectedness  of  Fate — unex- 
pected indeed  in  a  case  where,  as  I  have  already 
said,  we  did  not  even  know  upon  whom  to  fasten 
the  calamity.  The  arrival  of  the  coaches  and 
"shar-a-bangs"  drove  Laura  from  the  inn  door 
upstairs,  and  when  her  audience  consisted  of  but 
Cynthia  and  myself  we  heard  again  the  old  story 
of  the  want  of  confidence  with  which  she  is 
treated  by  the  family ;  the  Cimmerian  darkness 
to  which  she  is  consigned,  "Anything  might  hap- 
pen without  my  being  prepared,  and  with  an  ac- 
tion of  the  heart  like  mine  I  do  not  consider  it 
safe."  After  a  little  of  this  I  sent  the  Camelry, 
who  was  weeping  in  premature  sympathy,  to  the 
post  office  with  a  telegram  telling  Stephen  to  re- 
peat the  message.  Hours  of  vague  surmises,  dur- 
ing which  Laura  dwelt  upon  the  possibility  of 
getting  satisfactory  mourning  in  Edinburgh  and 
wondered  if  Charles  were  the  bereaved  husband 
and  father;  wondered  if  Colonel  Leagrave  had, 
unbeknown  to  us,  taken  to  himself  a  second 
wife;  wondered  if  Stephen  himself  had  made  a 
secret  marriage  and  waited  till  now  to  inform  us 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

of  the  fact.  "Sorrow,  Elizabeth,  though  you  may 
smile  (and  I  think  your  smiles  are  very  out  of 
place),  does  soften  people,  and  to  whom  should 
Stephen  turn  in  the  day  of  trouble  if  not  to  me?" 
Mrs.  Le  Marchant  also  sat  with  us  and  indulged 
in  sepulchral  recollections  of  the  mothers  and 
children  she  had  known  to  be  carried  olT  at  one 
fell  swoop,  and  then  at  last  the  return  telegram 
came :  "Annimicro."  I  flew  in  search  of  Mr.  Mc- 
Tavish.  "Annumcro:"  "Book  is  not  yet  pub- 
lished." 

"It's  a  peety  folk  doesna'  say  what  they  mean," 
was  Mr.  McFliail's  comment. 

All  this  has  so  shaken  Laura  that  she  feels  "it 
is  not  fair  to  myself"  to  remain  longer  at  Glen- 
fearn ;  and  consequently  the  head  and  shoulders 
of  the  Camelry  have  been  buried  in  travelling 
trunks  since  breakfast  time.  A  dentist  and  a 
shoemaker  are  our  ostensible  reasons  for  hurry- 
ing to  Edinburgh.  "Her  ladyship  says,  m'm, 
that  the  filling  is  now  gone  from  her  tooth  (per- 
haps it's  the  toughness  of  the  meat  has  drawn 
it),  and  her  heel's  blistered  that  dreadful  and 
painful  that  she  don't  know  how  to  walk;"  but 
as  Mrs.  Le  Marchant  (who  has  been  spending 
odd  days  here  between  visits)  leaves  Glenfearn 
to-morrow,  Laura  anyway  would  have  found  this 
heathered  place  unendurable  when  deprived  of 
her  companionship.  Mrs.  Le  Marchant  has  just 
proved  the  hair  that  prevented  the  sword  of 
Damocles  from  falling  and  causing  death  from 
solitude.     Laura  has  confided  in  her  freely,  and 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

"grief  is  easy  to  carry  when  the  burden  is  di- 
vided among  friends"  (I  take  this  reflection  from 
Reynard  the  Fox's  uncle,  Martin).  Your  post- 
card too  was  wrongly  read.  "Don't  presume 
upon  the  climate"  Laura  understood  to  mean 
that  the  enervation  from  which  she  now  sufifefs 
is  nothing  to  what  she  may  expect. 

With  Mrs.  Le  Marchant  as  a  warning  should 
I  ever  have  a  house  to  call  my  own,  nothing  will 
induce  me  to  let  it  and  throw  myself  for  months 
together  upon  the  hospitality  of  my  friends.  The 
hospitality  of  our  friends  is  delightful,  so  long 
as  their  hospitality  is  not  our  convenience,  but 
to  be  fitting  in  visits,  eking  out  one  there,  and 
squeezing  in  another  here,  I  think  it  is  detesta- 
ble, almost  depraving.  And  then  there  is  a  sort 
of  atmosphere,  unseverable  from  formal  visits, 
that  comes  between  oneself  and  the  heart  of  the 
country.  The  very  views  from  the  windows  be- 
come the  property  of  host  and  hostess  as  much 
as  do  the  pictures  on  the  walls.  I  remember  dur- 
ing a  three  days'  visit  to  the  Leytons  hearing 
Laura  praise  the  nightingale  as  if  she  were  com- 
plimenting Lady  Leyton  on  the  musical  per- 
formance of  her  niece,  and  she  really  spoke 
of  a  peculiarly  brilliant  sunset  with  a  civility 
that  led  one  to  infer  that  she  imputed  the 
splendour  of  the  evening  sky  to  the  admirable 
taste  and  feeling  for  colour  of  Lord  Leyton 
himself. 

I  am  sorry  for  Charles's  disappointment. 
Minnie  is  not  the  first  woman,  and  will  not  be 

222 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

the  last,  whose  help  has  been  a  hindrance  to  her 
husband.  ("When  Job  was  afflicted,  the  loss  of  \ 
his  wife  was  not  included  in  his  misfortunes," : 
Mrs.  Vivian  once  observed.)  Charles  has,  how- 
ever, as  you  say,  established  a  claim  upon  his 
party,  and  to  have  established  a  claim  in  public, 
as  in  private  life,  is  to  gain  possession  of  a  potent 
weapon.  Let  us  hope  that  if  he  stands  again 
Minnie  will  be  too  deeply  engrossed  in  "A  Trib- 
ute of  Tears,"  or  some  other  work  of  imagination 
to  throw  herself  "heart  and  soul,"  as  she  calls  it, 
into  the  campaign.  Minnie  is  always  posing  as 
something  or  other.  She  has  lately  posed  as  the 
devoted  "helpmate,"  the  colleague  as  well  as 
wife.  (I  don't  mean  that  her  affection  for  Charles 
is  a  pose,  for  of  course  it  is  not.  I  only  mean  she 
has  consciously  set  herself  to  play  the  part.)  If 
we  could  shift  her  pose  and  get  her  to  take  tem- 
porarily that  of  fcmmc  incom prise,  or  soulful 
woman  linked  to  a  soulless  husband,  whilst  she 
was  occupied  in  pouring  the  soul  into  a  novel, 
Charles,  uncompromised  by  his  wife,  might  suc- 
ceed in  getting  mind  and  body  into  St.  Ste- 
phen's. Stephen  Leagrave,  by  sympathy  and 
approval,  could  possibly  bring  about  this  state  of 
things.  He  has  always  treated  Minnie's  literary 
exploits  with  gratifying  interest,  and  went  the 
length  of  describing  "Only  a  Woman's  Heart" 
as  a  human  document.  And  then,  when  Charles 
had  taken  his  seat,  Minnie  might  be  gently 
pushed  into  another  pose — the  pose  of  the  sensi- 
ble young  woman  who  played  with  her  babies 

223 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

and  minded  her  own  business,  and  was  as  Icind 
and  good-hearted  as  Minnie  really  is. 

To  be  sure  it  is  the  Mona  Lisa  that  I  see  as  the 
portrait  of  your  frank,  unsophisticated,  bicycle- 
riding  Margaret.     To  revert  to  truth  after  this 
deviation  from  it.  La  Belle  Ferronniere  was  in  my 
mind  when  I  wrote,  and  as  soon  as  the  letter  was 
posted,  I    remembered,    with    staircase    memory 
(staircase  memory  is  allied  to  staircase  wit),  that 
La  Belle  Ferronniere  is  not,  in  these  latter  days, 
included   in   Leonardo's   works.     Have    you    a 
mind  in  which  what  you  know  lies  dormant  at 
times,  and  suddenly  forces  itself — mostly  too  late 
for   use — upon   your   consciousness?      Certainly 
not.    The  mind  of   Richard   is   better   regulated 
doubtless.    I  should  like  your  views  of  the  Mona 
Lisa.    Are  you  fascinated,  as  I  am,  or  repelled? 
Had   I   to   put   a   personality   to   her   I    should 
choose,  I  think,  that  of  another  Margaret,  that  of 
a  very  far  distant  Margaret — Marguerite  of  Na- 
varre.   Pater's  description  of  the  picture  does  not 
please  me,  but  then  the  beauty  of  Pater's  writing 
is  a  beauty  I  fail  to  appreciate.    I  find  something 
meretricious  about  it,  and  between  that  and  hon- 
est beauty  there  is  to  me  just  the  difiference  that 
lies  between  a  field  of  cowslips  or  a  l)ank  of  vio- 
lets and  a  perfumer's  shop. 

And  when  do  you  accomplish  your  "Ring"?  I 
hear  from  Mrs.  Vivian  that,  on  her  way  to 
choose  a  new  brougham — "Our  old  one,  as  I 
have  been  telling  John  for  years,  looks  as  if  poor 
Noah  had  used  it  when  he  drove  up  to  the  ark" 

224 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

— she  saw  Minnie  and  "that  horrible  Mrs,  Pot- 
ters (who  only  goes  because  she  thinks  it  the 
right  thing  to  do)  tearing  hot  and  hatless  down 
Long  Acre."  Mrs.  Vivian  may  be  correct  as  to 
Mrs.  Potters's  reason  for  hearing  Wagner,  but 
I  resent  the  general  imputation  that  this  or  that 
in  art  or  letters  is  liked  because  it  is  the  Fashion. 
How  are  we  to  like  that  which  we  do  not  know? 
That  mysterious  influence,  the  Fashion,  hawks 
ware,  pedlar-wise,  to  and  fro.  Autolycus  was  a 
rogue,  but  as  a  distributor  of  'iawn"  and  "Cy- 
prus," "bugle-bracelet,"  "necklace-amber,"  he 
was  of  use.  And  as  a  distributor,  too,  that  folly, 
the  Fashion,  has  its  use  and  brings  before  our 
notice  much  that  otherwise  would  bloom  un- 
known. 

You  excite  my  curiosity  when  you  speak  mys- 
teriously of  feeling  at  the  back  of  your  head  that 
you  will  see  more  of  Mr.  Shipley.  Is  the  subtle 
sensation  at  the  back  of  your  head  engendered, 
Dickory,  by  anything  very  tangible  that  you  see 
before  your  eyes?  Tell  me.  Thoughts  can  fly 
far  while  one  is  braiding  St.  Catherine's  tresses. 
I  can  see  Margaret  married  and  living  happily 
ever  after.  I  believe  in  William  Shipley,  for  he 
is  beloved  by  Alice,  and  if  a  brother  is  beloved 
by  his  sister  he  is  not  perhaps  more  wholly  bad 
than  you  are  yourself.  And  having  excited  my 
interest,  don't,  man-like,  relapse  into  eternal 
silence  on  the  subject,  but  tell  me  all  about  it,  as 
is  your  bounden  duty.  Do  not  only  tell  me  what 
you  think,  but  tell  me  what  reasons  you  have 

225 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

for  thinking  what  you  think,  so  that  with  my 
feminine  skill  in  such  affairs  I  may  winnow  the 
grain  from  the  chafif  of  your  premises.  But,  be- 
ing a  man,  you  are  of  course  very  much  more 
communicative,  a  thousand  times  less  discreet 
when  you  talk  than  when  you  write.  Being  a 
man,  you  go  in  much  greater  fear  of  commit- 
ting yourself  upon  paper  than  by  word  of 
mouth.  And  with  me,  as  I  am  a  woman,  it  is 
just  the  other  way.  And  how,  if  you  don't  dis- 
pute them,  do  you  account  for  these  facts?  Is  it 
that  the  written  word  remains  to  rise  up  and 
testify,  and  the  waves  set  in  motion  by  the 
spoken  word  are  not  apparent  to  our  senses,  and 
so  the  discreet  creature — man — speaks,  and  the 
indiscreet  creature — woman — writes  ? 

This  old  reason,  new  to  me,  for  objecting  to 
the  hiding  of  foreheads  by  fringes  of  hair  I  send 
to  Margaret:  "John  Rows  of  Warwick  re- 
proached the  beaux  of  his  time  for  suffering 
their  long  hair  to  cover  their  foreheads  on  which 
they  had  been  marked  with  the  Sign  of  the  Cross 
at  their  baptism."  The  book  which  tells  me  this, 
tells  me  too  that  Henry  V.  when,  as  Prince  of 
Wales,  he  "waited  upon  his  father  in  order  to 
make  his  peace,  was  dressed  in  a  mantle  or  gown 
of  blue  satin  full  of  small  eyelet-holes,  with  a 
needle  hanging  by  a  silk  thread  at  every  hole." 
Very  convenient  this  if  the  wearer  or  his  friends 
wished  to  darn  a  rent. 

Your  observation  on  the  thunder-god  of  the 
past  and  the  lahve-Pignouf  of  the  present  re- 

226 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

minds  me  of  De  Quincey,  "As  is  the  God  of  any 
nation  such  will  be  that  nation" ;  and  so  the  God 
of  feudal  times  was  "the  great  Suzerain  to  whom 
even  kings  pay  homage."  As  the  world  grows 
more  merciful,  I  suppose,  it  follows  that  a  fuller 
and  fuller  measure  of  mercy  will  be  ascribed  to 
the  Deity.  The  qualities  that  human  nature  ad- 
mires are  those  with  which  it  invests  what  it 
worships.    Human  nature  does  its  best. 

"Nor  is  it  possible  to  thought 
A  greater  than  itself  to  know." 

Poor  little  Cynthia  is  showing  signs  of  dis- 
tress. After  hearing  (from  Laura,  not  from  me) 
that  Harry  was  keen  to  go  to  Egypt,  she  took 
refuge  in  her  own  room.  I  was  afraid  of  worry- 
ing her,  but  yet,  as  she  had  not  reappeared  when 
the  Aberdonian  waiter  (whose  attitude  the  other 
evening  so  perfectly  illustrates  the  Persian  poem) 
banged  down  a  great  iron  tea-tray  upon  the 
"parlour"  table,  I  went  in  search  of  her.  She 
was  standing  gazing  forlornly  out  of  the  win- 
ciow,  with  a  damp  cobweb  of  a  pocket-handker- 
chief in  her  hand.  Then  and  there  I  determined 
to  write  to  Harry,  but  half  an  hour  after  there 
came  a  belated  letter  that  the  witch-like  old  post- 
mistress had  till  then  ignored.  The  belated  letter 
was  from  Harry.  "The  Rajah  will  have  told  you 
of  my  plans,"  he  says.  (You  have  not,  atrocious 
Rajah,  told  me  of  his  plans  definitely.)  "I'm  ofif 
to-morrow,"  he  goes  on,  "and  hope  it  won't  be 
a  case  of  getting  there  the  day  after  the  fair." 

227 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Then  a  postscript  bids  me  tell  Cynthia  that  Tre- 
lawneyfattens  and  flourishes  and  deigns  to  accept 
Margaret  as  a  slave.  So  now  I  incline  to  think  I 
had  best  not  write  to  Harry.  If  he  is  to  go,  or 
rather  if  he  has  gone,  doubts  as  to  the  wisdom 
of  his  going  will  but  unsettle  him.  What  do  you 
think  ?  Write  me  a  leader  on  the  subject.  How 
I  wish  he  were  safely  home  again.  Till  he  is  safely 
home  again  (I  am  touching  wood  as  I  write)  I 
shall  be  for  ever  imagining  ill.  I  do  think  for 
women  who  have  leisure  to  sit  and  think,  the 
lively  fancy  that  pictures  disaster  with  a  vivid- 
ness that  outvies  in  vividness  the  actual  is  an  en- 
gine of  tortiire  that  the  Inquisition  need  not 
have  despised. 

I  hear  from  Enticknap  that  old  Merlin  has 
passed  away.  I  wish  it  had  not  been  in  the  ab- 
sence of  his  family  that  the  dear  old  dog 
breathed  his  last.  Enticknap  had  a  great  opin- 
ion of  the  dog,  as  he  has  of  everything  that 
he  counts  ours,  and  was  solicitous  about  him  ac- 
cording to  his  lights.  When  once  I  inquired  why 
in  the  world  a  large  potato  was  pierced  with  a 
string  and  tied  to  Merlin's  collar,  Enticknap 
confessed  that  they  did  say  a  potato  carried 
in  the  pocket  would  get  the  rheumatism  out 
of  the  bones,  and  as  the  old  dog  had  no  pocket 
there  was  no  saying  but  what  the  tying  it  to  his 
collar  might  serve.  (The  potato  cure  for  rheu- 
matism is  an  old  Devon  superstition.  It  is  sup- 
posed that,  as  the  potato  softens,  the  rheumatism 

228 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

lessons.  The  potato  should  by  rights  be  placed  in 
the  patient's  pocket  by  a  member  of  the  opposite 
sex  and  unobserved.)  Poor  old  Merlin.  The 
death  of  a  faithful,  afifectionate,  dumb  thing  hurts 
surprisingly.  I  like  Carlyle  upon  the  death  of 
Nero :  "Little  dim  white  speck  of  Life,  of  Love, 
Fidelity  and  Feeling,  girdled  by  the  Darkness  as 
of  Night  Eternal."  And  he  could  not  have  be- 
lieved, he  says,  that  his  grief  would  have  been  the 
twentieth  part  of  what  it  was.  I  was  reading 
the  other  day  what  Horace  Walpole  wrote  on  the 
death  of  Madame  du  Deffand's  Tonton.  A  ten- 
derness for  animals  was  one  of  Horace  Walpole's 
redeeming  points.  Enticknap  tells  me  that  he 
has  laid  old  Merlin  under  the  grass  on  the  lawn 
near  the  filbert  trees.  I  wish  I  could  persuade 
you  to  write  Merlin's  epitaph.  Almost  the  last 
verse  that  my  father  wrote  was  an  epitaph  in 
Latin  on  the  first  Merlin,  this  Merlin's  father. 
Write  something  on  this  dear  old  dog.  I  wish 
I  could  have  seen  him  again. 

We  are  passing  through  such  a  lovely  day. 
Why  don't  you  conquer_distance,  span  space, 
and  come  and  take  a  walk?  Or  if  yoii  are  lazily 
inclined,  you  would  find  the  knoll  above  the  river 
where  a  knot  of  rugged  old  pines  gives  shade,  and 
grey  rocks  padded  with  wild  thyme  supply  seats, 
a  far  and  away  pleasanter  resting-place  than  a 
lifeless  club.  Carpets  and  curtains  strike  one  as 
lifeless  when  contemplated  from  the  site  of  reeds 
and  trees.    I  should  like  to  see  the  wind  raising 

229 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

the  carpets  and  tossing  the  curtains  of  the  "East 
Indian,"  but  then  I  suppose  some  old  clubite 
would  ring  passionately  for  the  waiter  to  close 
doors  and  windows.  Crash  !  Here  is  that  "gran" 
sound,  the  thunder  of  Mr.  McPhail's  dinner- 
gong  again,  and  either  there  will  be  no  walk  for 
me  or  no  dinner.  The  "gran"  sound  is  too  much 
for  Blair  and  Atholl's  nerves  as  it  is  too  much  for 
mine.  Poor  fellows,  they  flutter  from  side  to 
side  of  their  cage  in  wild  alarm.  Blair  and  Atholl 
are  not  a  thousand  miles  away  now  from  the 
place  from  which  they  take  their  names.  Did  you 
know  that  of  old,  Atholl  was  famous  for  witches? 
Two  thousand  and  three  hundred  of  these  per- 
sons of  greater  skill  than  probity  were,  in  the 
year  of  grace  1597,  drawn  up  together  upon  an 
Atholl  hill. 
Farewell.  I  break  ofif  to  consume  mutton. 
Your  loving  sister, 

Elizabeth. 

P.S. — Is   mutton    bracing?      Send    your   next 
letter  to  The  Thistle  Hotel,  Princes  Street. 

(Enclosed  in  Letter  XXIX.  Posted  at  Stirling.) 
After  Ossian. 
We  went.  In  the  hands  of  the  Camelry  was 
the  immense  dressing-bag  of  Laura.  Filled  with 
everything  needless  is  the  immense  dressing- 
bag  of  Laura.  In  the  thoughts  of  Laura  was  the 
awful  fear  of  enervation.  She  waked  her  own  sad 
tale  at  every  step. 

230 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

I  met  railway  porters  in  fight.  I  took  the 
tickets.  I  alone  of  all  the  Etchinghams  took  the 
tickets.    I  felt  the  strength  of  my  soul. 

Stately  are  Laura's  steps  in  enervation.  Stately 
is  Laura  on  the  platforms  of  railway  stations.  In 
her  hands  are  no  parcels.  The  Camelry  is 
broken  down  with  parcels.  Many  are  the  parcels 
of  the  Camelry.     Many  and  immense. 

O  wonderful  is  the  enervation  of  Laura. 
Wonderful  are  her  fusses  and  fidgets.  Often 
have  I  heard  that  no  woman  can  fuss  and  fidget 
as  Laura  can. 

The  traveller  shrinks  in  the  midst  of  her  jour- 
ney. She  shrinks  from  a  fellow-traveller  who 
eats  jam  sandwiches.  Horror  possesses  her  soul. 
Horror  possesses  the  enervated  soul  of  Laura. 

Fat  was  the  man  from  Glasgow  who  ate  jam 
sandwiches.  Fat  and  heated  and  red.  Exulting 
in  the  strength  of  his  appetite.  O  ye  ghosts  of 
heroes  dead !  Behold  Laura  boxed  up  in  a  rail- 
way carriage  with  a  fat  man  eating  jam  sand- 
wiches. We  looked,  we  wondered.  Laura  shrank. 


231 


XXX. 

From   Miss  Margaret   Etchingkam,   Hans  Place, 
to  Miss  Elizabeth  Etchingham,  Edinburgh. 

Dearest  Aunt  Elizabeth, — I  warn  you  tliat 
tills  letter  is  going  to  be  about  the  Ring,  and  the 
Ring  only.  What  else  can  I  write  about  when 
the  last  week  has  been  full  of  nothing  else?  So 
there.  It  is  a  most  curious  experience  to  have 
seen  that  wondrous  work  here.  In  Dresden, 
three  years  ago,  it  seemed  quite  a  part  of  one's 
life  there ;  but  it  is  different  here  in  the  midst  of 
London  turmoil  and  traffic.  One  felt  a  little 
mad,  starting  off  at  four  o'clock  in  one's  evening 
clothes  to  be  thrilled  by  Siegfried  and  Brijnn- 
hilde.  And  we  were  thrilled !  I  must  allow  that 
we  were  all  a  little  damped  the  first  day  by  "Das 
Rheingold."  It  depends  so  much  less  on  dra- 
matic interest  than  the  other  parts,  that  you  want 
the  orchestra  and  scenery  to  be  perfect.  Now, 
this  orchestra  might  be  good  enough  for  the 
common  run  of  operas,  though  they  would  not 
think  so  at  Dresden  or  Munich.  But  it  seemed 
sadly  rough  and  coarse  for  the  magically  delicate 
Rhine  music.  Then,  there  were  all  sorts  of  little 
mishaps — and  not  all  very  little — in  the  stage  ar- 
rangements. The  singers  were  good,  and  strug- 
gled bravely  not  to  be  put  out.     It  must  have 

232 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

been  even  worse  for  them  than  for  us,  when  a 
large  agitated  carpenter  was  seen  crossing  the 
stage  instead  of  the  expected  Wotan.  Poor  old 
Wotan,  he  had  enough  to  put  up  with  besides 
having  his  entrance  spoilt. 

Two  days  later  we  set  out  undaunted  for  "Die 
Walkure,"  and  we  were  much  better  pleased.  It 
was  something  of  a  wrench  when  we  bustled  out 
after  the  first  act,  speechless  and  overwrought 
from  the  wonderful  love-duet  of  Siegmund  and 
Sieglinde — to  get  our  dinner.  Isn't  it  a  wonderful 
thing?  You  know  the  music  in  concerts.  But 
dining  between  the  acts  is  a  good  plan ;  it  en- 
ables one  to  bear  up  under  the  emotion  ever  so 
much  better.  It  was  quaint  to  see  the  lovely 
ladies  in  opera  cloaks  and  diamonds  tripping 
down  Long  Acre  in  the  sunlight — but  every  one 
took  it  as  a  matter  of  course.  We  found  that  the 
orchestra  had  pulled  itself  together  and  the  stag- 
ing was  at  least  decent,  and  we  could  give  our- 
selves up  to  the  splendour  of  the  music. 

We  were  all  in  love  with  Fraulein  Ternina ; 
she  is  a  splendid,  quite  superhuman  Briinn- 
hilde.  We  couldn't  make  up  our  minds  whether 
we  were  more  impressed  by  the  dignity  of  her 
warning  to  Siegmund  in  the  second  act,  or  the 
pathos  of  her  appeal  to  Wotan  at  the  end,  which 
was  quite  unutterable  and  upsetting.  I  don't 
mean  that  she  couldn't  utter  it,  because  of  course 
she  did,  but  we  couldn't  speak  of  it. 

Our  third  night — "Siegfried" — was  the  most 
delightful  of  all ;  it  is  like  a  happy  enchantment. 

233 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

One  seems  to  feel  the  wind  and  the  sunshine 
every  time  when  Siegfried  blows  his  horn.  We 
had  a  good  young  Siegfried  and  he  did  not  put  on 
an  aggressively  childish  manner,  as  some  singers 
do.  He  was  more  than  sufficient  to  cope  with 
the  Worm — for  it  was  a  very  poor,  lumbering 
reptile. 

I  have  a  difference  with  the  rest  of  the  party. 
They  won't  allow  that  Mime  is  a  charming  per- 
son. The  cleverness  of  the  way  in  which  the 
music  fits  his  odious  character  without  being  un- 
musical is  to  me  particularly  pleasing ;  but  I  won- 
der why  Siegfried  did  not  kill  him  much  sooner 
or  set  the  bear  at  him.  I  know  I  should  have 
done  something  to  him.  But  what  a  glorious 
height  of  joy  the  last  act  rises  to  after  Briinn- 
hilde's  awakening!  it  is  a  thing  to  make  one 
dizzy.  Some  people  still  say  there  are  no  tunes  in 
Wagner.  I  suppose  they  do  it  merely  to  annoy 
— somebody  always  does.  Did  not  people  once 
complain  tliat  there  was  no  tune  in  Beethoven? 

As  for  the  "Gotterdammerung,"  it  left  us  very 
weak  and  crushed,  even  the  strongest  of  us.  But 
the  music  is  full  of  beauties,  and  Tcrnina  and  the 
De  Reszkes  were  superb.  It  feels  too  flat  and 
stale  to  go  about  ordering  dmfier  when  one's  in- 
ifer^self  is  walking  with  those  heroes  in  bearskins " 
(though  I  must  admit  that  ITagcn's  vassals  are  a 
poor  stagy  crowd  in  London),  and  Siegfried's 
horn  still  rings  in  one's  ears. 

Father  got  more  and  more  excited  about  it  and 
wanting  to  hear  fuller  accounts  as  it  went  on.    I 

234 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

am  sure  he  will  take  us  to  Bayrcuth  next  year. 
He  said  we  must  all  come  here  to  supper  to  be 
restored  after  the  "Gotterdammerung,"  and  we 
had  a  very  pleasant  party,  though  we  were  all 
rather  grave.  I  wish  you  could  have  been  with 
us,  and  I  wish  you  were  here  now  to  play  over 
some  of  the  music.  Instead  of  which  dinner  has 
to  be  ordered.  O  dear,  I  wish  it  was  all  to  come 
over  again.  Uncle  Harry  is  somewhere  in  the 
IMediterranean  by  this  time.  I  believe  he  is  not 
allowed  to  tell  anybody  what  his  orders  are.  All 
he  would  say  was :  "I  wanted  to  take  out  Trelaw- 
ney  as  a  Sudanese  orderly,  and  they  won't  let 
me."  Trelawney  feels  rather  flat,  too.  He  is  at- 
tached to  us  all,  but  no  one  can  make  him  purr 
like  Uncle  Harry.  Good-bye,  dear  Aunt  Eliza- 
beth.    Mrs.  Baker  is  here  for  orders. 

Margaret. 


235 


XXXI. 

From  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Hans  Place,  to 
Miss  Elisabeth  Etchingham,  Edinburgh. 

My  Dear  Elizabeth, — You  want  facts  about 
Harry  :  I  can  only  tell  you  that  he  has  gone  to  re- 
port himself  at  Cairo,  but  is  to  call  at  Malta  and 
spend  some  days  there  for  some  piece  of  technical 
work  which  either  he  will  not  be  informed  of 
himself  till  he  is  there,  or  he  must  not  disclose. 
He  has  been  there  before. 

You  want  evidence  about  my  conjectures. 
Well,  you  know  the  distance  from  Hans  Place  to 
the  Record  Office,  and  Mr.  Shipley  of  the  Rec- 
ord Office  has  been  here  on  several  occasions 
when  a  busy  man  would  have  been  quite  justified 
in  using  the  post,  and  Margaret  has  made  no  re- 
mark whatever.  Also  we  have  had  an  interest- 
ing little  party  to  view  the  treasures  of  the  Rec- 
ord Office  under  Mr.  Shipley's  guidance,  and 
Margaret  showed  a  much  livelier  curiosity  about 
medieval  palaeography  than  I  should  have  ex- 
pected. Did  you  ever  see  a  good  American  say 
his  prayers  to  Domesday  Book?  Of  course  they 
are  quite  right :  it  ought  to  be  put  to  bed  in  state 
every  day  with  a  procession,  like  the  Granth  in 
the  golden  temple  at  Amritsar.    I  should  like  to 

236 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

call  up  one  of  William  the  Conqueror's  Norman 
clerks  and  compare  notes  with  him  on  our  re- 
spective methods  of  working  a  revenue  settle- 
ment. As  far  as  I  can  make  out  from  Shipley, 
they  elaborated  a  language  quite  as  technical  as 
any  of  our  Anglo-Indian  slang,  so  technical  in- 
deed, that  after  about  two  centuries  nobody  un- 
derstood it. 

Hobbes  of  Malmesbury  is  another  old  fellow  I 
should  like  to  call  up,  and  see  how  he  would 
make  our  relations  with  native  states  in  India  fit 
into  his  doctrine  of  absolute,  indivisible,  inalien- 
able sovereignty.  But  even  in  England,  accord- 
ing to  his  principles,  we  have  been  living  pretty 
comfortably  in  sheer  anarchy  for  more  than  two 
hundred  years.  If  Landor  had  known  enough 
law,  he  might  have  made  a  pretty  conversation  of 
Hobbes  and  Selden,  disagreeing  widely  but  with 
mutual  respect.  I  hope  your  copy  of  Leviathan 
is  a  good  one ;  the  engraved  title-page  with  the 
great  artificial  man  made  up  of  little  men  is  too 
commonly  in  poor  condition.  There  ought  to 
be  a  cheap  edition,  not  quite  so  cheap  nor  quite 
so  unattractive  as  the  "Universal  Library"  re- 
print, which,  however,  I  was  once  glad  enough 
to  get  from  Bombay. 

Those  post-Shakespearian  poets  of  yours  (if 
Leagrave  will  allow  any  one  but  himself  to  claim 
any  interest  in  them)  seem  curiously  like  our 
modern  minor  poets,  of  whom  one  or  another  is 
always  going  to  dethrone  Tennyson,  or  Brown- 
ing, or  Swinburne,  and  never  does.  It  is  the  same 

237 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

story  of  the  generation  after  the  heroes ;  much 
deserving  work,  much  excellence  in  detail,  very 
fine  things  here  and  there,  but  the  "pride  and  am- 
ple pinion"  that  make  the  difference  between 
great  poetry  and  good  verse-writing  nowhere.  So 
far  as  workmanship  goes,  the  workmanship  of 
our  moderns  is,  I  think,  better  and  more  even. 
Whether  their  conceits  are  less  violent  than  Cra- 
shaw's  or  Vaughan's  will  be  for  the  twentieth 
century  to  judge. 

But  music  reigns  alone  here  for  the  present. 
Margaret  has  written  to  you  about  the  Ring. 
Now  I  am  free  to  wish  I  could  have  been  there 
too.  Did  the  company  add  to  her  enjoyment? 
Guess  for  yourself;  you  know  as  much  as  I  do. 

The  only  parting  blessing  I  could  think  of  to 
give  Margaret  on  going  to  "Siegfried,"  was  the 
clown's  in  "Antony  and  Cleopatra,"  "I  wish  you 
all  joy  of  the  worm."  According  to  her  report, 
the  English  stage  worm  is  a  very  shallow  mon- 
ster, so  a  critic  might  well  continue  in  the  clown's 
language,  "This  is  most  fallible,  the  worm's  an 
odd  worm."  Other  things  seem  to  have  been 
odd  too.  "Spoiling  the  ship  for  a  ha'p'orth  of 
tar"  is  an  English  proverb,  but  when  a  work  of 
art  is  in  hand,  nobody  in  this  country  seems  to 
realise  the  importance  of  that  ha'p'orth  of  tar. 

After  the  last  night's  performance  we  had  the 
whole  party  to  supper  here,  including  one  Crewe 
of  the  Chancery  Bar,  one  of  the  remnant  who 
love  learning  for  its  own  sake.  Charles  has  men- 
tioned him  to  me  as  an  unpractical  person  with 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

no  public  spirit — meaning  thereby,  I  suspect,  am- 
bition. He  quotes  chapter  and  verse  from  seven- 
teenth century  books  to  show  that  a  lawyer  ought 
to  be  musical.  Shipley  has  made  friends  with 
him  on  the  ground  of  legal  antiquities.  While 
they  were  discussing  the  various  possible  mean- 
ings of  the  Ring,  Crewe  turned  upon  Shipley  and 
said,  "You  are  the  only  person  here  who  will  see 
that  the  true  moral  of  this  trilogy  is  professional." 
"How  do  you  mean?"  ''Why,  Loge  was  the  first 
amateur  lawyer,  and  the  gods  were  punished  for 
taking  his  bad  advice."  "We  all  know  such 
wicked  advice  must  be  bad,"  said  Mrs.  Newton, 
taking  it,  as  might  be  expected,  seriously, 
though  she  seemed  happier  than  usual.  "He  says 
it  was  bad  law  as  well  as  wicked,"  explained 
Shipley :  "Ancient  Pistol,  I  do  partly  understand 
thy  meaning.  Let  us  hear."  "Perpend  then,"  said 
Crewe.  "Loge  tells  Wotan  it  is  safe  stealing  to 
steal  from  a  thief,  and  Wotan  believes  him.  But 
that  is  dead  against  the  first  principles  of  ancient 
German  law,  which  have  been  preserved  in  our 
law.  You  may  catch  your  thief  red-handed  if 
you  can.  If  not,  taking  is  keeping  until  the  true 
owner  comes  to  reclaim  his  goods,  and  Alberich 
had  a  better  right  to  the  treasure  than  Wotan, 
unless  Wotan  would  retake  it  in  the  name  of  the 
Rhine-maidens."  "But  that  was  just  what  it  did 
not  suit  him  to  do,"  I  ventured  to  interpose. 
"Yes,"  continued  Crewe,  "but  he  ought  to  have 
known  better,  after  giving  an  eye  to  purchase  all 
the   wisdom   there   was.    Anyhow,   putting   his 

239 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

trust  in  Loge's  thoroughly  bad  advice  was  his 
ruin."  "Are  you  sure  the  point  was  settled  so 
early?"  said  Shipley.  Here  Mrs.  Newton  called 
on  him  to  take  her  away,  and  indeed  it  was 
pretty  late. 

An  epitaph  for  Merlin,  say  you?  Have  not 
our  masters,  even  Matthew  Arnold  and  George 
Meredith,  commemorated  their  dachshunds  in 
verse?  And  who  am  I  that  I  should  botch  where 
they  have  carved?  One  could  wish  that  dogs 
lived  longer,  or  that  the  long-lived  animals  were 
more  interesting.  A  tortoise  may  be  a  good 
heirloom,  but  is  not  much  of  a  companion.  Even 
White  of  Selborne's  interest  in  his  old  tortoise 
was  more  scientific  than  personal,  I  think. 

What  do  I  think  of  Mona  Lisa?  Mona  Lisa 
was  not  easy  to  make  acquaintance  with,  and  was 
apt  to  be  alarming  during  the  period  of  slight  ac- 
quaintance. She  had  not  many  friends,  but  to 
the  few  she  had  she  was  adorable,  always  know- 
ing everything  in  a  quiet  way,  never  in  a  fuss, 
never  out  of  temper ;  one  of  the  women  who  can 
be  on  terms  of  real  friendship,  no  less,  and  noth- 
ing else,  with  a  man.  If  she  had  been  seriously 
angry  with  any  one  she  would  not  have  said 
much,  but  he  would  have  found  his  plans  crossed 
in  some  unexpected  and  particularly  unpleasant 
way.  I  doubt  whether  she  was  often  beloved  (for 
the  man  had  need  of  much  daring  and  of  the 
power  to  love  heroically),  or  ever  in  love.  If 
she  had  loved  at  all,  it  would  have  been  so  that 
the  world  must  have  heard  of  it.    Other  people, 

240 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

and  Pater  for  all  I  know,  may  make  her  out 
quite  dififerent.  I  don't  care  if  they  do,  and  am 
not  sure  that  I  would  take  a  contradiction  from 
Leonardo  himself. 

Your  loving  brother, 

Richard. 


241 


XXXII. 

From  Miss  Elizabeth  Etchingham,  Edinburgh, 
to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  London. 

Thistle  Hotel,  Princes  Street,  Edinburgh. 

Many  happy  returns  of  the  day.  Sir  Richard. 
A  very  fortunate  day,  this,  for  you.  (It  is  not 
your  own  birthday  to  which  I  refer.  Unlike  most 
people,  you  are  only  allowed  one  a  year.)  I  refer 
to  my  own. 

I  really  do  think,  Dickory,  it  is  rather  horrid 
of  you  to  have  forgotten  this  universal  festival. 
Not  one  word  in  your  writing,  not  the  ghost  of 
a  packet  that  looks  like  a  present.  My  wrath  is 
kindled  against  you.  However,  lest  over  severity 
drive  you  to  despair,  I  will  hint  that  I'm  not  im- 
placable, and  if  you  write  me  a  long,  long  letter 
and  promise  me  another  Helleu  etching,  I  may 
again  like  you  almost  as  well  as  I  like  Sir  Augus- 
tus Pampesford — The  saints  defend  us  !  Richard  ! 
Speak  of  the  deil — he — Sir  Augustus,  is  in  the 
room ! 

With  chastened  spirit  and  the  worst  quill  in  the 
world,  I  return  to  my  interrupted  letter.  Ehcu! 
Sir  Augustus  is  under  this  very  roof — come  to 
Edinburgh  to  interview  Lyon  King  of  Arms ; 
come  to  look  for  a  shooting;  come  to  be  civil  to 

242 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

somebody  (not  to  me).  I  never  did  see  anything 
quite  so  solid  and  solemn  as  he  looked  projecting 
himself  into  the  hotel  drawing-room  with  a  Royal 
Stuart  plaid  wound  about  his  massive  arm. 

And  the  sight  of  him  did  not  astound  Laura 
as  it  did  me.  For  once  the  shock  and  enerva- 
tion and  nerve  prostration  were  mine.  And  what 
did  I  hear  ?  I  heard  what  led  me  to  suppose  that, 
while  ministered  to  by  the  waiter  from  Aber-r-r-r- 
deen  the  other  evening,  we  narrowly  escaped  the 
sight  of  Sir  Augustus  darkening  the  coffee-room 
window,  shutting  out  the  light  of  heaven,  as  his 
elephantine  form  descended  by  ladder  from  the 
roof  of  the  station  omnibus,  to  the  door-steps  of 
the  inn.  But  for  some  contretemps  Sir  Augustus 
would,  it  is  plain,  have  joined  us  at  Glenfearn  the 
evening  before  last.  He  is  in  treaty  for  a  shoot- 
ing within  easy  distance  of  the  inn.  (Wait  a 
minute,  the  post  has  come  in.) 

Thank  you  for  your  letter,  dear.  You  will  have 
heard  what  Mr.  Shipley  writes  to  tell  me.  Poor 
Colonel  Newton.  Frankfort  railway  station  does 
not  seem  a  suitable  departure  platform  for  an- 
other world.  From  what  Mr.  Shipley  says,  he 
died  quite  suddenly.  His  servant  reports  that 
during  an  altercation  with  the  porters  about  the 
taking  of  small  luggage  into  the  carriage,  he  fell 
and  never  recovered  consciousness.  I  shall  be 
anxious  for  further  news  of  Alice.  I  am  rather 
glad  that  she  had  already  gone  back  to  Sufifolk. 
Not  that  it  can  make  any  vital  difference,  but  the 

243 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

influences  of  the  country  are  soothing,  and  those 
of  London  are  not.  She  asked  Mr.  Shipley  to 
write  to  me  and  then,  later,  wrote  a  few  Hnes  her- 
self. "Why  could  it  not  have  been  me?"  she  says. 
"I  always  thought  Hubert  could  have  been  quite 
happy  if  he  had  married  another  sort  of  woman, 
and  now  there  is  an  end  to  all  that  he  might  have 
had,  and  might  have  been." 

There  came,  too,  a  characteristic,  ghoulish  let- 
ter from  Mrs.  Ware,  Colonel  Newton's  sister, 
who  has  already  started  ofT  on  the  tack  of  "I 
should  have  thought  Alice  would  have  wished  the 
remains  brought  home  for  interment  in  the  family 
vault,  but  this,  from  what  I  learn,  is  not,  &c., 
&c.  .  .  .  Alice  herself  seems  wonderfully 
well.  I  have  offered  to  be  with  her  as  long  as 
she  likes,  regardless  of  serious  personal  in- 
convenience, but  she  is  expecting  Mr.  Shipley  on 
his  return  from  Germany,  it  appears,  and  mean- 
while does  not  feel  the  loneliness  as  one  would 
have  expected.  For  months  after  Mr.  Ware's 
death  I  could  not  be  left  alone  for  an  hour."  Mr. 
Shipley's  note  differs  wholly  in  purport.  He 
fears  that  this  shock  will  give  yet  another  rude 
shake  to  Alice's  shattered  nerves,  a  far  greater 
shock  than  news  of  the  signing  of  her  own  death 
warrant  would  have  been.  Charon  must  have 
the  hunter's  passion  for  pursuit.  He  despises 
willing  prey. 

Mrs.  Vivian  writes  to  tell  me  that  as  T  am  not 
available  she  is  taking  Ada  Llanclly  to  Marien- 

244 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

bad.  "It  is  easier  to  take  her  than  to  shake  her 
off,  and  now  that  Eddy  Leyton's  engagement  to 
Wilfrida  Home-Lennox  is  an  accompHshed  fact, 
Ada  does  not  give  herself  the  airs  that  she  did 
when  imagining  that  she  was  to  marry  him  her- 
self. I  heard  from  Lady  Leyton  this  morning, 
who  is  thankful  that  it  is  not  Ada.  She  likes  the 
Home-Lennox  girl.  I  certainly  should  be  sorry 
for  a  son  of  mine  to  marry  Ada.  She  is  a  regu- 
lar Becky  Sharp ;  but  she  will  do  well  enough  at 
Marienbad,  and  John  likes  her,  as  she  troubles 
herself  to  be  civil  to  him.  She  would  go  and  sit 
beside  a  scarecrow  and  be  civil  to  it,  if  it  wore  a 
man's  coat."  Mrs.  Vivian  furthermore  tells  me 
that  Mr.  Biggleswade  and  Ada  impressed  each 
other  very  favourably  when  last  he  came  to  Lon- 
don "dressed,  poor  zany,  to  look  as  much  like 
a  guardsman  as  possible  and  making  it  plain  that 
no  one  considered  the  Church  a  greater  anach- 
ronism than  he  does  himself." 

Mrs.  Vivian  goes  on  to  ask  me,  "How  would 
it  be  if  Mr.  Biggleswade  and  Ada  Llanelly  made 
a  match  of  it?  They  have  each  impressed  the 
other  with  the  sense  of  social  'smartness.'  Ada 
wonders  how  Mr.  Biggleswade  came  to  go  into 
the  Church  (a  wonder  after  his  own  heart),  and 
he  speaks  of  her  as  very  'good  fim'  (a  verdict  af- 
ter hers).  "She  couldn't  tolerate  life  in  our  vicar- 
age, but  she  might  tolerate  it  as  the  wife  of  a 
West  or  South-west  London  clergyman  who  re- 
mained in  the  Church  because  he  thought  it 
would  be  hard  on  the  poor  dowdy  old  Church  if 

245 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

he  threw  her  over,  and  who  preached  on  secular 
subjects  to  a  crowd  of  got-up  women  painted  to 
their  eyes."    So  says  Mrs.  Vivian. 

Is  it  true  that  Stephen  and  Mr.  Biggleswade 
are  writing  a  play  together?  Since  I  received 
the  "Unicode"  telegram  that  my  last  inquiries 
concerning  his  book-making  produced,  I  feel 
shy  of  putting  questions  on  literary  affairs  to 
Stephen. 

I  did  not  tell  you  that  while  we  were  at  Glcn- 
fearn  I  went  over  to  Dalruogh.  It  was  cowardly 
not  to  have  gone  before,  but  one  side  of  me  has 
been  half  crazed  I  think  these  years ;  and  I  have 
had  letters  constantly ;  and  I  have  written  con- 
stantly as  you  know.  (A  letter  had  come  from 
Dalruogh  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which  that 
foolish  Sir  Augustus  first  asked  me  to  marry 
him.)  And  when  I  was  at  Glenfearn  I  felt  as  if 
I  could  not  face  the  going  there,  though  I  felt 
too  as  if  I  should  be  sorry  always  afterwards  if  I 
did  not.  And  then  Mr.  Fraser — Dalruogh,  as  he 
is  in  that  country — rode  across  the  moor  to  Glen- 
fearn one  afternoon  when  the  others  were  out 
and  seemed  as  if  he  wished  me  to  come.  We  had 
met  already  at  half-way  places.  He  was  grow- 
ing old,  he  told  me,  and  old  folk  had  not  over- 
much time  for  getting  their  way,  and  he  had  a 
wish  to  see  me  there  again  and  to  give  me  one  or 
two  things  I  might  care  to  have.  So  I  went.  I 
was  deceitful.  T  am  afraid,  in  concealing  my  in- 
tention from  Laura.    P.ut  I  could  not  speak  of  it 

2.46 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

or  have  her,  or  even   Cynthia,  with   me.    Some 
things  one  can  only  do  and  endure  alone. 

Mr.  Fraser  still  lives  by  himself.    He  and  the 
collies — one  of  them  the  white  collie  I  christened 
Fingal,  now  old  and  stiff — came  out  to  meet  me. 
The  house  looks  just  the  same,  and  the  gardens 
as  peaceful  and  lovely  as  ever.     I  used  to  think 
how  when  you   came  home   you   would  admire 
those  hanging  gardens  overlooking  the  river,  ter- 
race divided  from  terrace  by  old  iron  gates,  and 
the  brilliant   flowers   thrown   into   relief   by  the 
background  of  dusky  yew.    I  used  to  think  of  the 
library,  too,  how  much  you  would  like  the  books. 
And  Mr.  Fraser  told  me  I  was  to  tell  you  in  de- 
tail of  his  treasures;  they  might  perhaps  tempt 
you    to   Dalruogh    some   day,  and   for   this,    he 
showed    me    the    copy    of     the    Montaigne    in 
which  Florio  apologises  for  printers'  and  other 
errors  by  saying  an  engagement  at  Court  had  ab- 
sorbed his  time ;  and  the  first  English  New  Tes- 
tament printed  at  Geneva,  and  a  folio  Beaumont 
and   Fletcher   with   the   wreathed   portrait,   and 
Hunnis's    "Seven     Psalms"    and    "Handful     of 
Honeysuckle,"  and  other  rare  books  of  old  verse, 
and  black-letter  Bibles  and  wonderful  missals, 
and  then  copies  of  about  ten  folio  editions  of 
Horace,  and  as  many  Virgils.    They  would  all, 
he  said,  go  to  a  ne'er  do  weel  lad  who  would  sell 
the  lot  to  pay  his  racing  debts.     He  had  only 
one  son. 

We  went  to  the  churchyard.     I  had  not  seen 
247 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

the  stone.  The  inscription  just  says,  "Alastair 
Ian  Fraser  of  Dalruogh,  born  January  7th,  1852, 
died  August  12th,  1891" — from  a  gun  accident. 
Suddenly — that  was  better  perhaps  than  ilhiess. 

But  why  had  it  to  be? 

The  stone  looks  quite  grey  and  old,  as  if  it  had 
been  there  a  long  while  now.  Seven  years  is  a 
long  while,  and  yet  it  is  nothing.  A  thousand 
years  and  but  yesterday. 

His  life  was  very  good  while  it  lasted,  I  like  to 
think  that.  He  was  very  successful  in  his  pro- 
fession and  had  interests  all  round.  As  keen  a 
soldier  as  Harry,  with  a  love  for  things  bookish 
like  you,  and  a  love  for  the  country  like  me.  And 
his  father  and  he  were  friends;  not  only  father 
and  son ;  and  to  his  mother  he  was  all  the  world. 
His  dying  sent  the  light  out  of  her  sky  for  ever, 
and  it  killed  her,  I  think.  I  was  tougher  and 
young,  and  got  acclimatised  to  living  on  in  the 
dark. 

I  don't  know  why  I  am  writing  this  to  you, 
rending  my  heart  but  not  my  garments.  Yes,  I 
do  know.  I  want  to  bring  him  back  into  your 
thoughts,  if  only  for  the  moment,  so  that  he  may 
live  in  your  memory ;  and  I  have  never  the  forti- 
tude to  do  it  speaking,  though  I  have  often  tried. 
For  the  dead  are  forgotten,  Richard.  We  only 
pretend  that  they  are  not.  To  all  my  relations 
now  it  is  as  if  he  had  never  lived  and  died.  Laura 
said  to  me  the  other  day,  "T  think  your  nerves 
are  getting  out  of  order,  Elizabeth;  you  wince 
when  you  hear  a  gun."    It  is  true,  I  do.    But  I 

248 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

have  not  suddenly  become  what  Harry  would 
call  gun-shy.  I  have  been  so  ever  since  the  day 
of  a  gun-accident  on  the  moor  above  Dalruogh. 

Mrs.  Vivian  would  say  I  have  had  more  in  not 
marrying  him  than  if  we  had  been  married.  The 
half  in  such  cases  is  greater,  she  declares,  than 
the  whole.  The  saints  were  mostly  unmarried,  or 
married  to  brutes  or  shrews,  she  is  fond  of  an- 
nouncing. I  remember  someone  saying  once, 
apropos  of  the  engagement  of  a  woman  she  knew, 
to  a  man  who  had  been  married  before,  "I  should 
not  be  jealous  of  the  woman  he  married,  but  of 
the  woman  he  cared  for  and  did  not  marry."  "It's 
the  men  and  women  that  are  beloved  but  not  mar- 
ried that  are  canonised."  But  there  are  people  in 
whom  there  is  nothing  that  disillusions.  Their 
trifling  faults  and  failings  are  either  lovable  or 
seem  to  throw  their  virtues  into  higher  relief. 
And  even  if  there  are  graver  faults,  I  don't  think 
that  would  interfere ;  unless  they  were  base,  un- 
generous faults.  Pride,  hot  temper,  self-will,  ob- 
stinacy, arrogance,  prejudice,  what  am  I  that  I 
could  not  forgive  them  all? 

It  was  even  harder  to  pull  myself  from  Dal- 
ruogh than  the  going  there  had  been,  and  it  was 
evening  before  I  came  away.  But  I  shall  go 
back,  I  think.  I  think  I  shall  go  back  soon ;  I 
said  I  would.  There,  at  least,  he  is  not  forgotten. 
His  guns  and  fishing-rods,  all  the  inanimate 
things,  are  just  as  they  used  to  be.    And  when 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

his  father  wished  me  good-bye  he  said,  "God 
bless  and  keep  you ;  we  have  both  the  same  sor- 
row in  our  hearts." 

And  then  I  drove  the  twelve  miles  over  the  hill 
to  Glenfearn,  and  was  met  by  Cynthia  with  many 
caresses,  and  by  Blake  with  the  tidings  that  "her 
ladyship  was  that  alarmed,  not  knowing  where 
you  was,  M'm,  and  them  nasty  tinkers  about, 
that  she's  having  tea  instead  of  dinner." 

For  the  rest  that  I  had  to  say  I  cannot  say  it 
now.    Good-bye. 

Elizabeth. 


250 


XXXIII. 

From  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  83  Hans  Place,  to 
Miss  Elisabeth  Etchingham,  Ocean  Hotel,  St. 
Kentigerns,  N.B. 

Dearest  Elizabeth, — How  should  I  forget 
your  birthday?  It  was  the  binder  who  was  a  few 
days  late  with  his  reverent  mending  of  a  little  old 
eighteenth-century  reprint  of  Sir  John  Davis's 
"Immortality  of  the  Soul,"  which  you  should  re- 
ceive by  this  post  or  the  next.  I  was  sure  you 
would  not  like  it  re-bound  if  the  old  binding 
could  be  saved.  Sir  John  pleases  me,  I  confess, 
better  than  your  later  English  Platonists.  His 
images  are  more  noble  and  sustained,  and  he  does 
not  fly  up  like  a  sky-rocket  to  burst  in  a  shower 
of  crackling  little  conceits.  I  don't  say  he  is  free 
from  affectations  in  his  minor  work.  Only  an 
Elizabethan  lawyer-poet  could  have  set  down 
that  "Every  true  wife  bears  an  indented  heart, 
wherein  the  covenants  of  love  are  writ."  But  I 
claim  judgment  for  him,  as  every  man  ought  to 
have  it,  on  his  best,  the  "Nosce  Teipsum."  What 
say  you  now  to  this? 

"As  a  king's  daughter,  being  in  person  sought 
Of  divers  princes,  who  do  neighbour  near. 

On  none  of  them  can  fix  a  constant  thought, 
Though  she  to  all  do  lend  a  gentle  ear: 

251 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

"Yet  she  can  love  a  forrain  Emperor, 

Whom  of  great  worth  and  power  she  hears  to  be, 
If  she  be  woo'd  but  by  Embassador, 

Or  but  his  letters  or  his  pictures  see: 

"For  well  she  knows  that  when  she  shall  be  brought 
Into  the  kingdom  where  her  spouse  doth  reign, 

Her  eyes  shall  see  what  she  conceiv'd  in  thought, 
Himself,  his  state,  his  glory,  and  his  train. 

"So  while  the  virgin  Soul  on  Earth  doth  stay, 
She  woo'd  and  tempted  is  ten  thousand  ways. 

By  these  great  powers,  which  on  the  Earth  bear  sway: 
The  wisdom  of  the  World,  wealth,  pleasure,  praise: 

"With  these  sometime  she  doth  her  time  beguile, 

These  do  by  fits  her  Fantasie  possess; 
But  she  distastes  them  all  within  a  while, 

And  in  the  sweetest  finds  a  tediousness." 

The  conclusion  of  the  simile  is  good,  but  not 
quite  so  good.    And  some  pages  farther  on : 

"Bodies  are  fed  with  things  of  mortal  kind, 

And  so  are  subject  to  mortality; 
But  Truth,  which  is  eternal,  feeds  the  mind. 

The  Tree  of  life,  which  will  not  let  her  die. 

"Heaven  waxeth  old,  and  all  the  spheres  above 
Shall  one  day  faint,  and  their  swift  motion  stay; 

And  Time  itself  in  time  shall  cease  to  move; 
Only  the  Soul  survives,  and  lives  for  aye. 

"And  when  thou  think'st  of  her  eternity. 
Think  not  that  Death  against  her  nature  is. 

Think  it  a  birth;  and  when  thou  goest  to  die, 
Sing  like  a  swan,  as  if  thou  went'st  to  bliss." 

252 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Stanzas  like  these,  when  one  considers  the  dif- 
ficulty of  handling  a  philosophical  argument  in 
verse,  appear  to  me  to  place  the  author's  art  very 
high. 

True  it  is  that  Sir  John  Davis  has  not  con- 
vinced the  world  that  his  aspirations  amount  to 
proof :  nor  has  any  one.  For  I  take  it  that  those 
who  believe  in  personal  immortality  on  direct 
conviction,  not  merely  on  authority,  or  as  having 
convinced  themselves  that  they  ought  to  believe 
on  authority,  are  no  very  large  number.  Indeed 
it  is  or  has  been  an  orthodox  opinion  that  nat- 
ural reason  is  not  adequate  for  this  purpose.  But 
it  is  good  to  aspire.  And  for  once  I  must  dis- 
agree with  you,  though  on  things  almost  too  sa- 
cred to  discuss — I  mean,  when  it  comes  to  one's 
own  personal  application.  Speculation  is  and 
ought  to  be  absolutely  free,  but  human  weak- 
ness can  preserve  its  freedom  only  by  keeping  it 
in  general  terms.  But  here  is  my  difiference. 
You  say  the  dead  are  forgotten ;  are  you  not  un- 
just to  the  remembrance  of  the  few — those  who 
ought  to  remember — in  confounding  it  with  the 
large  inert  oblivion  of  the  multitude?  No,  our 
dead  are  not  forgotten;  least  of  all,  perhaps, 
when  least  present  to  our  conscious  thought. 
None  of  us  can  really  sound  the  depths  of  his 
own  memory.  They  have  entered  into  our  lives 
and  work  with  us,  and  all  that  we  do  is  their 
tribute.  For  the  rest,  I  am  content  to  be  no 
wiser  than  the  nameless  sage  whose  wisdom 
was   deemed   worthy   to   borrow   a   name   from 

253 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Solomon.      "lustorum     animae    in    manu     Dei 
sunt." 

The  full  solution  is  not  for  us  now.  But  some- 
how, some  time — or  peradventure  as  much  be- 
yond our  measures  of  time  as  beyond  our  limits 
of  space — the  rules  that  keep  our  day-dreams  in 
order — it  is  plain  in  the  infinite  thought  of  the 
One  who  wakes.  If  we  may  not  pray  with  the 
saints,  we  can  watch  with  the  humble  sinners. 
Which  is  the  greater  faith — to  think  that  we  have 
the  secret  of  God's  counsels,  and  can  dispense  it 
in  daily  rations,  and  earn  doles  of  it  by  good  con- 
duct, or  to  trust  God's  knowledge  far  enough  not 
to  be  afraid  of  confessing  our  ignorance? 

"Some  draw  the  wine  to  drink  thereof  full  deep, 

And  some  i'  the  mosque  their  night-long  vigil  keep — 

Unstedfast  all,  tossed  on  a  shoreless  flood; 
For  One  doth  wake:  fools  in  their  folly  sleep." 

So  says  Omar  Khayyam,  the  real  and  serious 
Omar,  I  conceive,  when  he  rends  the  veil  of  his 
ambiguous  conventional  imagery  and  ceases 
from  his  antinomian  flings  against  the  formalism 
of  both  Mullahs  and  Siifis.  How  do  I  know,  you 
may  say,  that  this  and  not  the  other — or  one  of 
the  others — is  the  real  Omar?  Well,  I  don't ;  but 
this  and  like  utterances — not  fitting  into  the  com- 
mon forms  even  of  unorthodoxy — seem  far  less 
likely  to  have  been  interpolated  than  the  six  hun- 
dred and  one  stanzas  about  wine  and  moonlight 
and  the  lips  of  the  beloved  by  the  lip  of  the  field 
(the  boundary  between  tilth  and  wilderness  in  a 

^54 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

country  living  on  irrigation),  which  scores  of 
versifiers  might  have  written  at  any  time  over  sev- 
eral centuries.  Not  that  the  wine  and  moon,  and 
so  forth,  need  always  have  their  literal  meaning, 
or  only  that  meaning.  My  own  belief  is  that  the 
reader  is  often  wilfully  left  to  take  his  choice  as 
he  may  deserve :  but  that  is  yet  another  story. 

As  to  more  modern  literature,  it  is  quite  true 
about  Stephen  Leagrave  and  Biggleswade.  They 
are  concocting  an  Elizabethan  drama.  Not  much 
of  it  is  written,  so  far  as  I  can  make  out.  Lea- 
grave  tells  me  of  interminable  discussions  on  the 
mint  and  anise  and  cummin  of  archaism.  Big- 
gleswade wants  it  to  be  written  in  Elizabethan 
spelling,  with  stage  directions  to  impress  on  the 
reader  at  every  turn  that  the  action  takes  place 
under  the  conditions  of  the  Elizabethan  theatre, 
on  a  platform  commanded  by  the  audience  all 
round,  and  with  no  costumes  or  scenery.  You 
know — or  don't  know — that  our  incomparable 
Biggleswade  is  a  professed  enthusiast  for  the  re- 
vival of  the  pure  Elizabethan  stage  management. 
Apart  from  my  general  objection  to  Biggleswade 
and  his  works,  that  seems  to  me  one  of  the  queer- 
est fads  of  an  archaizing  age — permissible,  per- 
haps, as  an  occasional  curious  exercise.  Not 
long  ago,  when  Shipley  was  in  Paris  working 
with  his  friends  at  the  Ecole  des  Chartes,  he  met 
one  of  the  first  living  actors  of  France — one  who 
has  had  to  do  with  Shakespeare — and  told  him  of 
these  Elizabethan  performances  in  London.  The 
actor's  comment  was  what  a  Frenchman  would 


-;i^ 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

call  "brutal"  if  an  Englishman  had  said  it.  "C'est 
stupide !"  What  is  more,  I  think  Shakespeare 
would  have  called  it  stupid.  If  Shakespeare  made 
"four  or  live  most  vile  and  ragged  foils"  and  a 
few  "chambers  shot  off"  furnish  forth  the  siege 
of  Harfleur  and  the  field  of  Agincourt,  it  was  hot 
because  he  liked  it  so,  but  because  the  stage  and 
the  property-room  of  the  Globe  could  do  no  bet- 
ter for  him.  He  tells  us  so  himself.  What  is  the 
inference  to  any  one  who  has  not  drilled  himself 
into  the  very  lunacy  of  antiquarian  pedantry? 
Surely  that,  if  Shakespeare  could  be  with  us  now, 
he  would  applaud  Sir  Henry  Irving  to  the  full, 
and  work  the  resources  of  the  modern  theatre  to 
their  utmost  capacity.  Leagrave  is  dogmatic 
enough,  but  he  is  too  much  of  a  scholar  to  have 
broken  with  all  the  traditions  of  rational  modern 
education,  and  he  has  not  got  to  the  point  of  de- 
spising everything  done  between  1590  and  1890. 
So  I  don't  very  well  see  how  he  and  Biggleswade 
are  going  to  hit  it  off.  The  play  will  no  doubt 
find  some  one  to  praise  it ;  Biggleswade  has  at 
any  rate  not  neglected  the  modern  art  of  "ladling 
butter  from  alternate  tubs."  But  it  needs  no 
great  skill  in  fortune-telling  to  prophesy  that  it 
will  have  none  to  act  it  and  very  few  to  read. 

Do  you  know  the  story  of  the  minister  at  a 
Scottish  funeral  giving  out  the  hymn? — "Let  us 
sing  hymn  No.  297 :  it  was  always  a  favourite 
hymn  with  the  remains."  Mrs.  Ware  may  sing 
hymn  No.  297  over  Colonel  Newton  if  she  likes ; 
as  indeed  she  is  in  duty  bound.    I  shall  not  pre- 

256 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

tend  to  be  sorry  that  poor  Mrs.  Newton,  after  ap- 
parently throwing  away  her  life,  has  another 
chance  of  living.  Margaret  is  sorry  without 
much  pretence,  and  it  can  hardly  be  for  Colonel 
Newton.  Shipley  took  a  hurried  leave  of  us  be- 
fore going  ofif  to  Frankfort  to  do  what  has  to  be 
done  there ;  after  which  he  will  have  to  give  an 
uncertain  amount  of  time  and  trouble  to  putting 
things  in  order  at  home.  I  know  nothing  of  Col- 
onel Newton's  affairs,  except  that  he  was  the  kind 
of  man  who  is  apt  to  leave  most  trouble  to  sur- 
vivors— that  is,  he  thought  he  was  business-like, 
and  was  not.  Mrs.  Newton  probably  does  not 
know  the  difference  between  a  cheque  and  a 
bank-note,  so  Shipley  will  have  to  look  to  every- 
thing. 

Arthur  has  come  up  for  the  Harrow  match,  and 
gone  back  disgusted  with  the  usual  inconclusive 
result  (it  seems  that  nowadays  a  drawn  match  is 
rather  to  be  expected  than  not) ;  but  he  is  much 
pleased  with  his  recent  promotion  to  Sixth  Form 
— to  be  captain  of  one's  house  and  in  Sixth  Form 
is  a  great  matter.  Perhaps  it  is  as  near  the  posi- 
tion of  a  reigning  Indian  prince — with  the  house 
master  for  Resident  and  the  head-master  for 
Viceroy — as  anything  this  country  can  show. 
Meanwhile  Shipley  and  I  had  spent  a  half-holi- 
day afternoon  and  evening  at  Eton — the  very  day 
before  Colonel  Newton's  death  was  announced. 
Arthur  has  most  likely  written  to  you  since,  as  he 
is  a  pretty  good  correspondent.  He  is  devoted 
to  Shipley,  as  you  are  aware,  and  wanted  very, 

257 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

much  to  entertain  him.  I  don't  know  which  of  us 
enjoyed  it  most.  We  rowed  up  to  Boveney  weir 
for  a  bathe,  as  all  good  Etonians  ought  when  they 
get  the  chance;  and  I  am  free  to  maintain  that 
there  is  no  better  bathing-place  in  the  world,  and 
none  so  good,  except  perhaps  in  Rosia  Bay  near 
Europa  Point  at  Gibraltar.  And  then  tea  with 
Lytewell  in  his  garden — a  real  individual  garden 
which  he  has  made.  Is  that  admirable  type  of 
scholar  and  gentleman — scholar  all  over,  not 
merely  in  Latin  verses  and  such  like — threatened 
with  extinction?  Does  it  begin  to  seem  antiquat- 
ed to  our  young  folk?  Not  to  Arthur;  I  can  an- 
swer for  him :  but  he  is  only  one.  I  hope  not. 
Our  public  schools  are  not  laid  out  for  commer- 
cial seminaries,  and  will  only  be  beaten  at  that 
game  if  they  try.  But  the  humanities  have  sur- 
vived the  great  Useful  Knowledge  illusion  of 
sixty  years  ago — an  illusion  not  lasting  enough 
to  disturb  the  slumbers  of  Aklis  with  a  Master  of 
the  Event — and  they  seem  healthy  enough  for  a 
while  yet.  "And  what  do  you  make  at  your  pub- 
lic schools?"  said  a  worthy  Privat-doacnt,  still  a 
little  hazy  about  the  idiomatic  use  of  his  English 
verbs,  to  a  well-trained  gunner  going  back  to 
Indian  service  from  his  leave.  The  carefully  self- 
informing  German  had  already  ascertained  that 
his  examinee  had  passed  into  Woolwich  from 
Marlborough.  "Men,"  said  the  gunner.  And  the 
Privat-doccnt,  having  discovered  his  mistake  by 
further  questioning,  made  a  careful  note  on  the 
annoying  refinements  of  the  English  verbs  make 

258 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

and  do.    This  was  the  last  time  I  went  out,  some- 
where off  Crete. 

Arthur  was  fuller  of  Shipley's  praises  than  ever 
when  he  was  at  home,  and  Margaret  seemed  as  if 
it  got  on  her  nerves  somehow.  What  does  that 
mean? 

If  there  be  anything  in  so-called  Christian 
Science,  Laura  will  surely  be  very  ill  one  of  these 
days — I  suppose  it  works  both  ways. 

Your  loving  brother, 

Richard. 


259 


XXXIV. 

From  Lady  Etchingham,  Thistle  Hotel,  Edinburgh, 
to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  83  Hans  Place. 

My  dear  Richard, — Kindly  send  me  Mr. 
Weekes's  address  at  once.  The  Follits  are  away 
for  their  holidays — somewhere  abroad,  I  fancy — 
so  there  might  be  delay  in  receiving  an  answer 
from  them.  I  should  be  obliged  if  Margaret 
would  have  my  bronchitis  kettle  (the  largest  of 
the  three)  got  out  of  the  cupboard  in  the  Bath- 
room, where  I  hope  it  still  is  carefully  packed,  and 
sent  to  me  without  losing  a  post  to  The  Ocean 
Hotel,  St.  Kentigerns,  N.B.  (Grace  must  clean 
it  thoroughly  first.)  I  have  not  bronchitis  at 
present,  but  my  breathing  since  Sunday  has  not 
been  quite  free,  and  did  I  wait  till  an  attack 
came  on  to  write  for  the  kettle  it  might  reach  me 
too  late,  and  there  is  never  any  harm  in  being 
prepared. 

We  took  some  pretty  drives  at  Glenfearn,  but 
the  air  is  terribly  enervating,  and  it  is  scarcely  a 
place  to  stay  in.  The  food  is  very  indifferent,  and 
the  attendance  thoroughly  bad.  Elizabeth  did 
not,  I  think,  notice  the  poorness  of  the  accom- 
modation. She  seemed  up  in  the  clouds  all  the 
time.    I  was  sorry  that  she  should  not  have  told 

260 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

us  the  day  she  went  over  to  Dah-uogh,  but  I  posi- 
tively had  not  the  sHghtest  idea  of  where  she 
was  going,  and  was  more  surprised  than  I  can 
express  when  I  heard  from  Blake,  who  asked  the 
driver,  where  she  had  been.  Neither  I  nor  Cyn- 
thia know  Dalruogh,  and  we  should  have  enjoyed 
the  drive.  As  it  was,  we  wasted  the  day,  which 
was  one  of  the  finest  we  have  had.  An  old  in- 
valid gentleman  from  Bournemouth,  with  a  very 
objectionable,  pushing  young  nurse,  took  the 
other  landau,  and  I  had  to  do  without  my  daily 
drive. 

It  must  have  seemed  odd  to  Mr.  Fraser  that, 
when  we  were  all  in  the  neighbourhood,  Eliza- 
beth should  be  the  only  one  of  the  party  to  call. 
As  that  pleasant  Mrs.  Le  Marchant  said,  it 
might  look  as  if  we  were  not  on  good  terms  for 
Elizabeth  to  go  ofif  like  that  by  herself.  It  is 
much  better  for  people  to  keep  together,  and  it 
makes  less  gossip. 

This  hotel  is  very  well  managed  and  the  beds 
are  good.  We  go  on  to  St.  Kentigerns  to-mor- 
row (Mrs.  Le  Marchant  assured  me  that  I  might 
depend  upon  the  East  coast  of  Scotland  being 
most  bracing  and  invigorating),  and  we  expect  to 
be  at  home  on  Saturday.  Elizabeth  will  let  Mrs. 
Baker  know  about  dinner  when  she  has  looked 
out  the  trains.  She  has  now  gone  ofif  again  to 
St.  Giles's.  If  it  can  be  managed  I  shall  take 
Cynthia  to  Holyrood  before  we  leave.  I  suppose 
one  ought  to  see  it. 

Colonel  Newton's  sudden  death  from  heat  apo- 

261 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

plexy  is  very  shocking.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Newton 
now  will  be  sorry  that  they  did  not  get  on  better 
together.  Here,  too,  it  is  excessively  warm,  but 
the  weather  may  change. 

I  hope  Margaret  will  see  that  the  spout  of  the 
kettle  is  properly  packed,  and  that  the  parcel  is 
labelled  ''Fragile,"  "With  great  care,"  as  well  as 
"Immediate." 

With  kindest  love, 

Affectionately  yours, 

Laura  F.  Etchingham. 

P.S. — Tell  Margaret  without  the  spout  the  kettle 
is  useless,  and  Grace  is  so  terribly  heedless  that 
she  had  better  make  sure  herself  that  it  is  all  sent 
and  registered. 


26-2 


XXXV. 

From  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  83  Hans  Place, 
S.IV.,  to  the  Dowager  Lady  Etchingham, 
Ocean  Hotel,  St.  Kentigerns,  N.B. 

My  dear  Laura, — I  am  sorry  I  cannot  help 
you  to  Mr.  Weekes's  address,  as  I  have  not  seen 
or  heard  anything  of  him  since  he  left  Much 
Buckland.  Neither  do  I  know  Mr.  Follett's  pres- 
ent address.  If  you  ascertain  it  and  have  occasion 
to  write  to  him,  please  observe  that  he  spells  his 
name  with  an  e  and  two  fs.  He  is  an  old-fash- 
ioned scholar  and  particular  about  such  things. 

Should  Mrs.  Le  Marchant,  with  whom  I  have 
not  the  honour  to  be  acquainted,  or  any  other 
person,  trouble  you  with  any  more  conjectures  as 
to  Elizabeth's  visit  to  Dalruogh,  you  have  my  au- 
thority to  tell  him  or  her  that  I  am  fully  informed 
of  Elizabeth's  reasons,  and  that  they  are  perfectly 
good. 

We  can  find  no  bronchitis  kettle  here  at  all  an- 
swering your  description,  but  only  an  old  kettle 
and  a  spout  which  do  not  fit  one  another.  I 
should  guess  that  your  large  kettle  went  with  the 
rest  of  your  luggage  to  Glenfearn  and  has  been 
accidentally  left  there.    If  not,  I  should  presume 

263 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

that  "whitesmith"  is  good  Scots  for  a  man  who 
makes,  or  will  make,  bronchitis  kettles,  and  that 
he  and  they  are  to  be  met  with  in  Edinburgh. 

London  is  particularly  pleasant  and  healthy 
this  summer,  and  cool  for  the  time  of  year. 
Yours   afifectionately, 

Richard  Etchingham. 


264 


XXXVI. 

From  Miss  Elisabeth  EtcJiingham,  Ocean  Hotel, 
St.  Kentigcrns,  to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  83 
Hans  Place. 

Dearest  Dickory, — You  don't  know  how 
grateful  I  am  to  you  for  your  letter.  "They  that 
are  whole  need  not  a  physician,  but  they  that  are 
sick,"  and  virtue  went  out  of  you  when  you 
wrote.  I  wanted  you  to  contradict  what  I  said 
about  the  forgetting  of  those  who  are  gone. 
When  I  feel  as  I  felt  when  my  letter  was  written, 
I  am  unjust,  I  know. 

I  have  been  all  out  of  gear  lately,  unjustly  re- 
senting that  people  did  not  realise  what  I  do 
my  best  to  conceal.  It  is  unfair  to  blame  Laura, 
or  blame  any  one,  for  hurting,  when  my  object  is 
to  pretend  to  pretty-well  every  one  that  T  am 
callous.  You  know  what  is  amiss  by  instinct, 
and,  as  far  as  I  go,  it  is  only  those  who  do  know 
what  is  amiss  by  instinct,  who  understand, 
whether  we  will  or  not,  whose  handling  of  the  ill 
is  bearable. 

It  is  stupid  to  mind  the  things  that  I  often 
have  minded.  If  we  are  to  live  with  our  fellow- 
creatures,  we  must  take  our  chance  and  rough 
it.    But  the  merest  trifles  can  give  the  feeling  of 

265 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

a  great  unbridgeable  gulf  fixed  between  what  we 
really  are,  and  all  around  us.  When  Charles,  the 
evening  before  I  left  London,  looked  surprised, 
and  asked,  in  astonished  accents,  across  the 
table  at  dinner,  how  in  the  world  I  came  to  any 
knowledge  of  the  "honours"  on  the  Black  Watch 
colours,  it  made  me  feel — I  don't  know  what  it 
made  me  feel,  unless  it  was  that  I  and  the  pres- 
ent were,  by  everything  that  exists,  divided.  And 
that  time  when  Laura  found  that  I  had  been  to 
Dalruogh,  she  not  only  regretted  that  Cynthia 
and  she  had  missed  the  drive,  but  said  that  Blake 
might  have  sat  upon  the  box.  Richard,  is  it  a 
fortunate  or  unfortunate  accomplishment  to  be 
able  at  the  same  time,  as  I  am,  to  laugh  with 
one's  mind,  and  cry  with  one's  heart? 

People  are  handicapped,  I  think,  for  sensible 
rational  behaviour  who  have  the  gift  of  seeing 
with  their  thoughts  as  vividly  as  with  their  eyes. 
Sometimes,  halfway  through  a  dinner  party,  or 
when  I  have  taken  Cynthia  to  a  ball,  I  could  see 
suddenly,  just  as  if  it  was  let  down  before  my 
eyes,  what  happened  that  day  on  Dalruogh 
moor.  I  could  see  it  all,  I  could  even  hear  the 
ripple  of   the  burn  from  which  they  must  have 

brought  water,  and  the But  I  will  not  let 

myself  think  of  it  now. 

After  the  first  it  was  never  jarringly  desolate 
at  Tolcarne,  as  it  was  during  the  time  in  London. 
We  had  been  together  at  Tolcarne,  and  there 
were  associations  and  a  background  not  alien 
from  all  I  felt.     But  in  that  Hans  Place  house, 

266 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

where  he  has  never  been,  and  where  there  is 
nothing  of  which  the  look  was  to  him  familiar,  I 
have  gone  through  all  the  agonies.  (You  are  to 
make  over  a  hovel  to  me  at  Tolcarne  in  my  old 
age — you  really  must.) 

There,  now  I  have  told  you,  and  I  wish  I  had 
told  you  before ;  for  of  you  one  does  not  ask 
bread  and  get  a  stone,  nor  does  one  get  what  is 
worse  than  a  stone — that  obtrusive,  publicly 
shown  after-sympathy  with  which  the  tactless 
molest  the  harassed. 

Since  your  letter  came  I  have  wanted  an 
analogy  for  the  present  and  the  past — the  pres- 
ent which  is  the  outcome  of  the  past.  It  is  not, 
for  all  of  us,  the  flower  of  the  past;  but  do  you 
think  that  it  is  the  seemingly  withered  seed,  not 
beautiful  to  look  at  and  not  fragrant,  but  still  as 
much  part  of  the  flower  that  has  gone  as  of  the 
flower  that  will  come? 

You  must  have  known  beforehand  that  I 
would  like  the  verses  from  the  "Immortality  of 
the  Soul."  I  wish  the  book  would  appear.  I 
really  did  think  that  you  had  forgotten  my 
birthday,  but  then  I  was  all  to  wrongs  and  in  a 
mood  to  fear  the  worst. 

As  to  the  battles  of  the  creeds,  it  is,  I  think, 
easier  to  believe  that  we  ourselves  can  go  out 
like  a  candle  than  can  those  for  whom  we  care. 
It  is  not  as  if  we  had  seen  life  while  we  know 
life  exists.  It  is  not  as  if  we  had  seen  the  motive 
power  as  well  as  the  machinery,  what  propels  as 
well  as  what  is  propelled.     The  manifestations 

267 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

of  life,  not  life  itself,  are  apparent — the  outward 
and  visible  sign,  not  the  inward  and  spiritual 
grace.  What  it  is  that  makes  personality — 
what  inspires  that  we  do  and  are — is  no  more 
visible  in  what  we  call  life  than  if  the  change 
that  we  call  Death  had  come.  There  is  some- 
thing in  us  that  enables  us  to  realise  what  is  too 
fine  for  our  senses  to  grasp ;  and  the  sceptics,  as 
far  as  I  know,  do  not  prove  that  Death  can 
touch  that. 

Margaret's  letter  must  be  answered  now.  It 
deserved  a  quicker  response ;  and  I  have  a  letter 
from  Arthur  to  answer  as  well.  (Both  the  crea- 
tures are  fashioning  their  handwriting  upon 
yours.)  Arthur's  letter  is  in  the  key  of  Mr. 
Shipley,  and  indignation  prompts  his  pen.  Here 
was  I,  Elizabeth  Etchingham,  honoured  by  ac- 
quaintance with  this  phoenix,  and  I  had  bottled 
up  the  important  fact  during  a  period  of  many 
lengthy  years.  Arthur  had  not  the  ghost  of  a 
notion  that  I  knew  the  man.  Had  he  known  it, 
he  would  have  raised  my  pedestal  sky  high. 
That  he  makes  plain.  Black  deceit,  double- 
dealing  indeed,  never  to  have  let  out  that  I  was 
acquainted  with  this  prodigy — this  athlete,  this 
wit,  this  everything  valiant  and  valuable  rolled 
into  one. 

Margaret's  raptures  arc  for  the  "Ring."  Mr. 
Shipley  does  not  come  into  her  letter,  which 
does  not,  of  course,  prove  that  he  does  not  come 
into  her  thoughts.    When  I  try,  however,  I  find 

268 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

I  can't  put  Margaret's  possible  emotions  under 
the  microscope.  But  from  what  AHce  Newton 
wrote  to  me  a  little  while  ago  I  gather  that  he 
is  very  much  occupied  with  her — "I  hope  Sir 
Richard  won't  think  that  Will  is  giving  the 
family  too  much  of  his  company ;  he  seems  un- 
able to  tear  himself  away  from  Hans  Place."  I 
heard  this  more  than  once.  Can  Mr.  Shipley  be 
back  from  Frankfort  before  you  and  Margaret 
leave  London?  Your  instinct  would  be  to  take 
her  away,  I  believe,  even  though  you  think  he 
is  everything  that  he  can  be.  For  does  any 
man  seem  quite  good  enough  to  another  man 
when  looked  upon  as  the  lover  of  his  daughter? 
I  once  heard  Mrs.  Vivian  wish  that  people  came 
into  the  world  and  went  out  of  it  in  congenial 
pairs.  "It  would  be  deadly  dull  and  would  leave 
nothing  to  write  books  or  invent  falsehoods 
about,"  she  said,  "but  it  would  save  endless 
trouble  and  unpleasantness."  (Her  last  "mot" 
on  Mr.  Vivian's  taciturnity  is  that  she  wishes, 
to  break  the  silence,  "he  could  be  fitted  up  with 
a  spring,  as  Hugo  Ennismore  says  was  that 
colossal  statue  of  Memnon  at  Thebes  which 
struck  a  musical  note  at  sunrise."  The  Army 
and  Navy  Co-operative  Society  might  do  the 
work,  she  believes.) 

Your  letter  to  Laura  did  not  miss  fire.  It  was 
just  the  very  letter  to  hufif  her  most,  and  she 
had  it  out  of  her  dressing-bag  to  read  three 
times  between  Edinburgh  and  St.  Kentigerns, 
and  seemed  after  each  perusal  more  and  more 

269 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

enervated.  She  does  not  like  to  be  addressed  as 
the  Dowager  Lady  Etchingham — "Laura,  Lady 
Etchingham  looks  more  like  me."  And  that  al- 
lusion to  the  temperate  climate  of  London  was 
a  cruel  sting  in  the  epistle's  tail.  You  are  cer- 
tainly formidable  as  an  antagonist,  and  never 
turn,  please,  from  my  friend  to  my  foe.  Laura 
only  read  out  selections  from  the  letter  to  mc, 
but  what  I  heard  of  the  odd  kettle  and  spout  and 
the  London  temperature  was  quite  enough  to 
account  for  the  Christian-martyr  air  with  which 
she  traveled,  and  the  many  restoratives  that  she 
required  on  the  way. 

The  red  rocks  of  this  shore  remind  me  of  the 
rocks  of  the  West,  and  between  the  sea  and  the 
Lammermoors  there  should  be  romance.  And 
there  are  other  sights  more  humanly  impressive 
than  the  sights  of  the  sea  and  the  hills.  Under 
lowering  grey  clouds,  and  to  the  playing  of  the 
"Dead  March,"  a  soldier's  funeral  passed  to-day 
up  the  very  wide  grass-grown  street  of  this 
quietest  of  quiet  towns.  Then  there  is  contrast 
here  as  well  as  harmony.  Cynthia  and  I  made 
use  this  morning  of  the  St.  Kentigerns  Grange 
garden  keys,  lent  to  us  by  the  absent  owner.  A 
clear  trout-stream,  a  lake  on  which  swans  fioat, 
JUXase-garden,  j;;ose-full,  and  a  sun-dial  bound 
about  with  honeysuckle,  delighted  us.  And  to 
pass  through  a  little  door  in  the  high  sea-wall, 
over  which  China  roses  blow  profusely,  was  to 
find  ourselves  upon  the  beach  with  salt-water 
for   fresh,  seaweed   for   roses,  and   seagulls   for 

270 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

swans.  Is  your  Paradise  provided  with  salt- 
water or  fresh,  seaweed  or  roses,  seagulls  or 
swans,  green  lawns  bordered  with  lilies  or  yel- 
low shell-strewn  sands?  Do  you  prefer  the 
sound  of  the  river  or  the  sound  of  the  sea?  The 
"many  waters"  of  my  dreams  are  the  waters  of 
many  rivers. 

We  saw  enough  and  to  spare  of  Sir  Augustus 
in  Edinburgh.  I  believe,  I  believe,  I  believe — 
(Enter  the  waiter,  "Any  more  letters,  M'm?" 
"Yes.")     Good-bye. 

Elizabeth. 


271 


XXXVII. 

From  Lady  Etchmgham,  Ocean  Hotel,  St.  Kenti- 
gcrns,  to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  83  Hans 
Place. 

My  dear  Richard, — You  being  the  repre- 
sentative of  your  father,  whose  first  object  was 
my  happiness,  I  write  to  tell  you  that  I  have 
promised  to  become  the  wife  of  Sir  Augustus 
Pampesford.  I  feel  sure  I  shall  have  your  good 
wishes  for  my  future.  I  have  always  tried  to 
perform  the  duties  of  a  delicate  position,  and  I 
have  the  satisfaction  of  feeling  that  no  effort  of 
mine  has  been  wanting  to  promote  your  happi- 
ness and  that  of  your  sister  and  brothers. 

In  justice  to  Sir  Augustus  and  myself  I  can- 
not refrain  from  saying  that  evidently  a  very 
erroneous  view  of  his  former  sentiments  was  en- 
tertained. He  once  fancied,  it  is  true,  that  an 
alliance  with  a  woman  he  could  trust  and  re- 
spect would  satisfy  the  needs  of  his  heart  and 
mind;  but  I  believe  he  pretended  to  no  intense 
afifection  for  Elizabeth — in  fact,  he  has  informed 
me  that  it  is  only  comparatively  recently  that  he 
realised  the  extent  of  the  devotion  that  a  woman 
could  inspire.  I  explain  this  because  I  should 
not  like  Elizabeth  or  you,  who  have  sometimes 

272 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

seemed  jealous  for  her,  to  suppose  that  I  have 
supplanted  her,  or  even  taken  what  she  re- 
jected.   I  am  accepting  what  was  never  hers. 

The  Hving  and  chaplaincy  of  Pampesford- 
Royal  being  vacant,  we  propose  to  appoint  Mr. 
Weekes. 

Trusting  that  you  and  Margaret  are  well,  and 
with  kind  love  to  both, 

Ever  affectionately  yours, 

Laura  F.  Etchingham. 


273 


XXXVIII. 

Miss  Elisabeth  Etchingham,  Ocean  Hotel,  St.  Ken- 
tigerns,  to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham. 

Laura,  with  the  Great  Mogul  at  her  elbow,  if 
not  with  his  hand  on  her  pen,  is  writing,  Rich- 
ard, to  tell  you  of  her  engagement  to  him.  (Self- 
importance  is  but  a  weak  word  with  which  to 
describe  the  inflated  grandiloquence  of  their 
bearing.)  Is  it  not  a  most  merciful  dispensa- 
tion of  Providence?  I  am  sure,  as  Mrs.  Vivian 
said  to  her  of  Christian  Science,  that  she  will 
like  it  (like  being  Lady  Pampesford)  very  much. 
Double-barrelled  pomposity  is  far  less  subject 
to  discomfiture  than  is  the  one-barrelled  species, 
and  Sir  Augustus  and  Lady  Pampesford  may 
imagine  their  dual  existence  to  be  the  pivot  on 
which  the  world  turns,  and  run  no  risk  of  a  rude 
awakening. 

The  more  I  reflect,  the  happier  I  think  are  the 
auguries.  He  can  and  will  give  her  all  that  she 
asks.  And  he  will  never  puzzle,  and  by  puzzling 
disconcert  and  disturb  her,  as  you  have  done. 
You  know  your  comments,  that  she  only  sus- 
pects are  sarcastic  by  seeing  some  one  else  try 
not  to  laugh,  have  always  bewildered  and  dis- 
pleased her;  and  then  she  had  no  confidante  in 

274 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

the  family.  She  would  have  liked  us  better  if 
we  had  liked  each  other  less.  To  carry  out  the 
divide-and-govern  advice  has  been,  where  her 
step-children  were  concerned,  impossible.  If 
felicity  is  bad  for  our  morals,  it  is  mostly  good 
for  our  manners,  and  she  will  be  far  and  away 
pleasanter  with  an  admiring  Sir  Augustus  at  her 
elbow  than  she  has  been  with  people  much  more 
taken  up  with  each  other  than  with  her.  Laura, 
in  certain  narrow  grooves,  is  genuinely  amiable, 
and  to  imagine  herself  of  importance  always 
puts  her  into  a  good  humour.  For  grievances 
we  shall  now,  I  feel  sure,  have  graciousness. 

And  Mr.  Weekes  is  to  go  to  Pampesford- 
Royal.  The  meek  little  man  will  develop  an 
obsequiousness  equal  to,  if  not  surpassing,  that 
which  bowed  down  Mr.  Collins  before  Lady 
Catherine  De  Bourgh.  No  clergyman  with  a 
backbone  would  stand  the  blend  of  interference 
and  condescension  that  his  patrons  will  dis- 
pense, and  I  think  they  have  shown  a  masterly 
choice  of  tools. 

Write  as  amiably  as  you  can  to  Laura.  She 
has  suffered  many  things  at  my  hands,  if  not  at 
yours,  and  I  am  really  delighted  that  she  has  got 
at  last  what  she  likes.  The  bronchitis  kettle  is 
forgotten  and  the  air  here  is  found  most  in- 
vigorating. 

"Trustie  and  wel-beloved,"  are  you  taking 
care  of  yourself?    If  not  you  are  selfish  and  bad. 

Elizabeth. 

P.S. — I  am  writing  to  Harry. 

275 


XXXIX. 

From  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  83  Hans  Place, 
S.W.,  to  Miss  Elisabeth  Etchingham,  Ocean 
Hotel,  St.  Kcntigerns. 

My  Dear  Elizabeth, — Your  second  letter, 
and  a  solemn  announcement  from  Laura  which 
confirms  the  same,  have  come  together  just  as 
I  was  going  to  answer  the  first.  Their  contents 
are  really  too  good.  Erring  and  purblind  crea- 
tures that  we  were  not  to  perceive  for  what  an 
appropriate  use  in  the  world  the  great  Sir  Au- 
gustus was  reserved !  Gladly  let  us  dine  with 
them  once  a  year — even  twice  if  need  be — for 
the  rest  of  our  joint  lives.  We,  dear  sister,  be- 
cause the  hovel  called  Tolcarne,  though  it  is  not 
a  great  house,  is  wide  enough  to  hold  us  both. 
If  we  find  harmony  too  dull  we  can  always  quar- 
rel over  the  binding  of  a  book.  Talking  of  bind- 
ings, Jem  has  been  very  mysterious  about  my 
Tod's  "Rajasthan"  ever  since  he  carried  it  off: 
he  would  not  tell  me  exactly  where  he  meant  to 
take  it,  and  insisted  on  having  unlimited  discre- 
tion. And  now  Jem  has  appeared  in  his  proper 
person,  on  a  flying  visit  in  a  respite  of  his  ex- 
amination work,  bearing  the  book  in  its  new 
garment.  It  is  bound  in  a  rich  deep  russet,  not 
so  far  from  the  dark  brown  you  wanted ;  only  it 
is  Eastern  morocco,  not  calf,  and  relieved  with 

276 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

dull  gold  ornaments  of  Eastern  design.  One 
could  almost  believe  it  the  work  of  a  native 
craftsman.  It  is  not  by  Jem's  man  at  Oxbridge. 
While  Jem  had  it  out  in  his  rooms  at  Silvertoe, 
there  came  round  one  day  the  Professor  of  Ro- 
mance Languages,  who  naturally  finds  few  stu- 
dents of  ProveuQal  or  Catalan,  but  knows  every- 
thing else  from  Iceland  to  Japan,  and  is  ready 
to  tell  it  in  every  way  except  officially.  He 
pounced  on  the  book,  which  he  had  never  seen 
before,  became  deeply  interested  in  it,  firmly 
vetoed  Jem's  and  my  plans  about  the  binding, 
and  took  it  out  of  Jem's  hands  to  an  art  school, 
of  which  he  will  not  reveal  the  exact  location. 
Jem  has  been  wondering  all  these  weeks  whether 
I  should  ever  see  my  Tod  again ;  without  cause, 
as  it  now  appears.  I  am  interrupted ;  a  mysteri- 
ous visitor,  it  seems.  .  .  .  Truly  Sir  Au- 
gustus is  our  benefactor,  but  he  has  not  deliv- 
ered us  for  nothing.  What  should  I  find  in  the 
drawing-room  but  two  ladies  I  had  never  seen 
before,  rather  tall,  angular,  very  correct  in  bear- 
ing, very  antique  in  dress  (it  seemed  to  my  in- 
expert eyes)  very  —  well,  let  us  say  rather  — 
antique  in  person ;  armoured  and  glistening  in 
many  beads  and  bugles ;  one  of  them  black,  or 
nearly  black,  the  other  dark  purple.  I  could  not 
think  who  they  were,  and  they  did  not  look  as 
if  they  expected  me  or  knew  who  I  was.  'T  beg 
your  pardon,"  I  began  feebly.  No  response, 
only  puzzled  and  timid  glances  exchanged  be- 
tween the  two  personages.     They  must  be  sis- 

277 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

ters ;  were  they  two  spinsters,  or  widow  and 
spinster?  What  could  they  want?  Perhaps  it 
was  a  begging  dodge  for  some  doubtful  or 
worse  than  doubtful  would-be  charitable  enter- 
prise. I  bethought  me  of  the  sage  caution  of 
the  C.O.S.  (Charles  had  been  telling  me  a  lot 
about  it ;  he  is  a  zealous  committee-man  in  his 
district,  whereby  he  does  more  good  than  by 
politics),  and  tried  that  tack.  "If  you  have  called 
on  behalf  of  any — institution — would  you  kindly 
leave  the  prospectus  with  me  and  give  me  time 
to  consider  it?  "  Expression  of  pained  surprise 
and  polite  but  firm  deprecation ;  their  feelings 
apparently  too  bad  for  words.  So  that  was  a 
failure,  anyhow.  Then  I  remembered  that  Mar- 
garet had  entered  into  relations  with  our  district 
committee.  No  beggars  these,  then,  but  more 
likely  stewards  of  charity,  stern  but  efficient 
dragons,  and  wisely  benevolent  under  their 
scales,  though  the  scales  were  many  and  won- 
drously  shiny.  "A  thousand  pardons,"  I  re- 
sumed. "I  think  it  must  be  quite  the  other  way. 
Perhaps  you  came  to  see  my  daughter  on  Com- 
mittee business?  I  am  sorry  she  is  out."  The 
visages  relaxed  slightly,  and  the  necks  (I  believe 
dragons'  necks  are  wrinkled)  bridled  with  a  cer- 
tain complacence  as  if  to  acknowledge  the 
apology.  But  still  I  was  ofi.  the  mark.  All  signs 
of  a  hit  were  wanting.  Another  pause,  in  which 
I  felt  all  sorts  of  colours. 

At  last  the  blacker  dame  seemed  to  be  labour- 
ing at  a  spring  somewhere  in  her  vocal  chords, 

278 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

as  one  struggles  with  that  stout  back-spring  of 
a  Spanish  knife. — "For  the  love  of  God,  Sefior, 
lend  me  a  dollar  to  ease  the  spring  of  my  knife," 
says  your  sturdy  Spanish  tramp ;  and  the  way- 
farer, if  not  armed  and  ready  with  his  arms,  finds 
it  well  to  produce  the  dollar,  and  not  be  urgent 
for  its  return. — Well,  the  spring  gave,  and  out 
came  a  high  dry  voice  with  a  quaver  in  it.  "We 
have  the  pleasure  to  speak  with  Sir  Richard 
Etchingham?"  —  "That  is  my  name."  —  "The 
present  head  of  the  family?"  Thus  joined  in  the 
voice  of  the  purple  one,  a  fat,  blurting  voice,  with 
an  occasional  uncontrollable  falsetto  in  wrong 
places,  which  rather  spoilt  the  intention  of  dig- 
nified ease. — "At  your  service." — "Teresa  !"  re- 
sumed the  first  with  a  monitory  aside.  "It  is 
true.  Sir  Richard,  that  we  intended  in  the  first  in- 
stance to  pay  our  compliments  to  Miss  Margaret 
Etchingham,  but  I  am  sure  you  will  readily, 
quite  readily,  admit  our  claim  on  your  acquaint- 
ance." I  felt  blanker  and  blanker.  Could  Jem 
have  sent  me  two  mad  undergraduates  in  mas- 
querade? Had  something  gone  wrong  in  the 
Zodiac  and  made  it  a  Gilbert  and  Sullivan 
world?  "Because,"  plumped  out  the  second, 
"dear  Lady  Laura  being  so  soon  to  be  our  sis- 
ter makes  Miss  INlargaret  a  kind  of  niece  to  us, 
and  we  thought  it  would  be  so  nice  to  know  you 
all,  and  indeed  a  want  of  duty,  with  an  example 
to  set  in  our  neighbourhood,  too,  if  we  delayed." 
"Teresa!  Familiarity  will  perhaps  be  more  in 
place   when    Sir   Richard   Etchingham   has   re- 

279 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

ceived  the  full  statement  of  the  circumstances 
and  reasons  to  which  he  is  entitled.  And,  to  be 
sure,  we  should  not  complain  of  Sir  Richard  for 
being  properly  cautious,  though  I  should  have 

thought  the  name ."    "Excuse  me,"  I  cried 

in  despair,  "but  I  have  heard  no  name  at  all !" 
Here  enter  Grace — who  is  so  careless,  as  Laura 
says ;  she  really  is  a  good  soul,  with  fits  of  wool- 
gathering— bearing  an  abashed  countenance  and 
a  salver.  "Please,  Sir  Richard,  I  forgot  the 
ladies'  cards."     I  took  ;  I  read  : 

Miss  Pampcsford, 
Miss  Teresa  Pampcsford. 
loi,  Palace  Gardens. 

So  they  were  the  sisters  of  Him,  the  semper  Au- 
gustus. They  worship  him ;  they  have  shrivelled 
in  watching  his  growth,  as  in  an  old  cookery- 
book  I  saw  long  ago  two  cutlets  are  "victimised" 
for  a  third,  which  is  cooked  between  them  and 
absorbs  all  their  goodness.  For  twenty-five 
minutes  did  those  much-absorbed  spinsters  des- 
cant in  treble  and  alto  on  the  nobility  of  their 
brother  and  the  virtues  of  Laura.  My  agree- 
ment that  it  was  an  eminently  proper  match,  and 
entirely  satisfactory  to  me,  so  far  as  I  had  any 
right  to  an  opinion,  was  genuine  so  far  as  it 
went,  though  I  could  scarcely  abound  in  their 
sense.  We  had  a  very  polite  leave-taking.  Five 
minutes  later  Margaret  came  in.  I  suppose  she 
will  have  to  call  on  them. 

Meanwhile   the    Elizabethan    drama    runs    to 

280 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

alarms  and  excursions.  It  will  soon  be  "Enter 
Biggleswade  and  Leagrave,  fighting."  Biggles- 
wade's epistles  on  the  points  of  spelling  and 
stage  directions  have  been  exacting,  per- 
emptory, rude,  violent.  He  has  worked  himself 
up  to  threatening  Leagrave  with  an  action  to 
compel  him  to  carry  out  the  plan — according  to 
Biggleswade's  interpretation ;  and  having  writ- 
ten his  solemn  threat,  he  has  taken  advice  on  its 
legal  value.  Charles,  who  does  permit  himself 
to  be  amused  by  professional  jokes,  came  in  at 
breakfast-time  this  morning  chuckling  over  an 
opinion  which  Crewe  had  shown  him  before  he 
sent  it  out.  Biggleswade's  solicitor,  finding  his 
client  intractable,  laid  a  case  before  Crewe,  with 
a  hint  that  nothing  short  of  a  full  and  learned 
opinion  would  give  satisfaction ;  and  he  got  one, 
it  seems.  Crewe  has  proved  with  many  authori- 
ties that  no  court  of  law  or  conscience,  in  the 
time  of  Queen  Elizabeth  or  at  any  time  since  till 
this  year  1898  inclusive,  would  undertake  to 
compel  a  man  to  write  a  play.  My  somewhat 
vague  and  distant  recollections  of  the  Indian 
Specific  Relief  Act  confirm  the  soundness  of  his 
conclusion ;  this  somewhat  to  Charles's  surprise, 
for  Charles  is  under  the  impression  that  all  In- 
dian judges  and  magistrates  exercise  a  despotic 
and  patriachal  jurisdiction  with  the  most  arbi- 
trary discretion,  and  I  have  never  been  able  to 
remove  it.  Not  that  I  do  not  personally  wish 
one  could  frame  some  literary  frontier  regula- 
tions of  a  summary  pattern,  and  apply  them  to 

281 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Biggleswade  and  one  or  two  others.     Frontier 
regulations  ought  to  be  good  for  bounders. 

Charles  and  Minnie  are  perhaps  coming  to 
the  neighbourhood  of  Tolcarne  when  the  courts 
rise  on  August  12.  They  have  heard  of  one  or 
two  houses  which  might  possibly  do.  I  fear  this 
means  that  he  is  still  hankering  after  the  Clay- 
shott  Division ;  but  he  must  go  his  own  way  in 
that  respect.  Meanwhile,  he  can  help  Mrs. 
Tallis  and  me  to  settle  that  little  boundary  ques- 
tion in  the  simplest  manner  which  the  wonderful 
land  laws  of  this  part  of  the  British  Empire  will 
allow.  But  he  maintains  through  thick  and  thin, 
whenever  I  mention  the  subject,  that  the  system 
here  is  the  only  one  suited  to  English  habits,  and 
that  my  praise  of  Indian  land  transfer  at  the  ex- 
pense of  the  English  family  solicitor  (for  whose 
only  benefit  the  whole  business  seems  to  me  to 
exist)  is  just  another  piece  of  official  prejudice. 
This  is  not  exactly  what,  by  the  light  of  nature, 
one  would  expect  from  an  enlightened  and  ad- 
vanced Radical.  But  I  have  met  with  few 
Radicals  who  are  not  intensely  conservative 
about  something,  generally  belonging  to  their 
own  profession. 

We  must  clear  out  of  this,  I  suppose,  a  day 
before  you  come  back.  The  house  won't  hold 
us  all,  and  Laura  will,  of  course,  expect  to  find 
everything,  down  to  the  old  unserviceable 
kettle,  well  swept  and  garnished. 

Ever  your  loving 

Richard. 

282 


XL. 

From  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Hans  Place,  to  the 
Doivager  Lady  Etchingham,  Ocean  Hotel,  St. 
Kentigerns. 

My  dear  Laura, — Accept  my  best  congratu- 
lations on  your  engagement  to  Sir  Augustus 
Pampesford,  in  which  Margaret  begs  to  be 
joined. 

It  seems  in  every  way  an  excellent  and  most 
suitable  match,  and  Elizabeth  will  no  doubt  con- 
firm me  in  saying  that  I  express  her  opinion  as 
well  as  mine. 

Wishing  you  all  prosperity  and  happiness, 
I  am  yours  affectionately, 

Richard  Etchingham. 


283 


XLI. 

From  Miss  Elisabeth  Etchingham,  St.  Kentigerns, 
to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  London. 

Is  there  imbecility,  dear,  in  the  family  (the 
Pampesford  family),  or  was  it  only  imbecility's 
counterfeit,  nervousness,  that  made  her  put 
Laura  into  the  peerage  and  twist  Margaret — 
Laura's  step  grand-daughter — into  her  own 
"kind  of  niece"?  Find  out,  do,  if  they  are  all 
feeble-minded,  and  leave  a  note  to  say  "Yes"  or 
"No"  upon  the  chimney-piece  in  my  room.  And 
what  was  Grace  doing  straying  about  the  draw- 
ing-room with  cards  on  a  salver?  Heaven  help 
her  if  Laura  hears  of  her  proceedings.  Laura 
would  inquire  in  severe  and  shocked  accents, 
"Where,  pray,  was  Turnbull?" 

I  will  write  from  Hans  Place.  At  this  mo- 
ment salt  water  is  running  from  the  hem  of  my 
garments  and  making  pools  upon  the  floor  big 
enough  to  accommodate  salmon.  Such  mag- 
nificently towering  waves  are  breaking  to-day 
over  the  sea-wall,  and  I  was  childish — or  im- 
becile— enough  to  wish  that  one  would  break 
over  me.    One  obligingly  did. 

Yours  ever  and  always, 

Elizabeth. 


XLII. 

From  Sir  Richard  Etchingham  to  Miss  Elizabeth 
Etchingham,  83  Hans  Place,  S.W.,  to  await 
arrival. 

No,  my  dear  wave-salted  sister,  it  was  not 
natural  imbecility,  but  anxiety  to  talk  with  polite 
ease  and  show  that  they  knew  the  world.  They 
ought  to  have  married  auctioneers  in  a  small 
borough,  and  devoted  their  ambitions  to  qualify- 
ing a  daughter  to  marry  the  town  clerk.  Plenty 
of  nerves,  certainly,  and  not  too  much  brains. 

Biggleswade  has  sent  Leagrave  another  furi- 
ous letter,  declaring  that  everybody,  including 
his  own  solicitors  and  counsel,  is  in  a  conspiracy 
against  him.  Stephen's  troubles  are  not  likely 
to  be  at  an  end.  He  is  advised  that  Biggles- 
wade will  probably  fall  into  the  hands  of  some 
shady  solicitor,  who  will  carry  hopeless  proceed- 
ings just  far  enough  to  run  up  a  nice  little  bill  of 
costs  ;  after  which  there  remains  the  lowest  depth 
of  being  a  plaintifif  in  person.  Biggleswade  is 
capable  of  that.  He  thinks  he  knows  as  much 
as  Shakespeare;  we  are  told  that  Shakespeare 
was  a  lawyer;  argal,  Biggleswade  must  be  a 
lawyer;  and,  with  the  proverbial  fool  for  his 
client,  he  may  plague  honest  men  for  a  season. 

Thine,  R.  E. 

28s 


XLIII. 

From  Miss  Elhabcth  Etchingham,  83  Hans  Place, 
to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Tolcarnc. 

Renseignements  Mondains. 

Arrives  a  Londres  et  descendus  a  I'hotel  Etch- 
ingham— 

Your  stepmother. 

Your  stepfather-in-law  (Milord  Auguste  Pam- 
pesford-Royal,  Bart.). 

Your  sister. 

Your  stepmother's  niece. 

La  Camelrie. 

Les  singing-birds. 

(I  was  once  at  Dieppe  for  an  hour,  and,  hke  a 
better  known  personage,  without  wholly  acquir- 
ing the  French  tongue,  lost  the  complete  knowl- 
edge of  my  own,  and  have  spoken  broken  Eng- 
lish ever  since.) 

It  was  grievous  to  find  only  your  note,  and  not 
you.  But  St.  Kentigerns,  when  enjoyed  in  the 
company  of  Sir  Augustus,  proved  so  enchant- 
ingly  bracing  that  Laura  would  not  cut  down  her 
stay  there  by  an  hour.  I  was  sorry  for  some  rea- 
sons to  cross  the  Border.  But  it  shall  not  be 
"Lochaber  no  more." 

You  tell  me  that,  when  confronted  with  the 
Miss  Pampesfords,  you  asked  in  your  bewilder- 

286 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

ment  if  they  had  called  on  behalf  of  any  institu- 
tion.   Well,  I  really  do  think  they  did  call  on  be-\ 
half  of  an  institution.    I,  who  have  now  travelled  \ 
with  him,  assure  you  that  Sir  Augustus  is  nearer  j 
to  an  institution  than  to  a  man.     And  a  pros-  \ 
pectus  would  befit  him  better  than  a  character,  f 
Surely  he  is  the  personification  of  an  Institution,  I 
or   a    Corporation,    or   a    City    Company,    or   a/ 
Board.     His    solemnity    is    appalling,    and    per- 
fectly illustrates  the  Gallic  definition  of  gravity : 
''Gravity  is  a  mysterious  carriage  of  the  body  in- 
vented to  cover  the  defects  of  the  mind."     And 
Laura  enjoys  and  finds  safety  in  the  "mysterious 
carriage" ;  she  approves  of  the  seriousness  with 
which  he  takes  himself  and  takes  her,  instead  of 
being  bored  to  death  by  it.     Solemnity  is  to  me 
suffocating;    and    as    to   love-making,    I    agree 
with — 

"He  had  been  a  fool, 
An  unfit  man  for  any  one  to  love. 
Had  he  not  laugh'd  thus  at  me." 

A  bantering  epistle  has  reached  me  from 
Harry,  who  had  just  received  my  note  telling 
him  of  Laura's  engagement  when  he  wrote.  He 
is  in  high  spirits,  and  in  answer  to  my  enquiries 
says  the  hourly  bulletins  will  be  discontinued,  as 
his  usual  rude  health  shows  no  sign  of  breaking. 
He  is  kept  fully  employed,  and  has,  he  informs 
me,  no  quarrel  worth  mentioning  with  Fate  at 
present. 

Poor  Stephen  came  in  to  see  us  last  night.    He 

287 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

has  suffered  acutely  at  the  hands  of  Mr.  Big- 
gleswade. And  as  Mr.  Biggleswade  carries  his 
seventeenth-century  madness  to  the  point  of  al- 
lowing no  words  to  pass  till  not  only  he,  but  his 
friend  Mr.  Ledache,  is  satisfied  that  it  is  used  in 
its  strict  Elizabethan  sense,  and  as  Mr.  Biggles- 
wade and  Mr.  Ledache  are  not  always  in  accord, 
Stephen's  tortures,  legal  proceedings  apart,  are 
likely  to  be  long  drawn  out.  Then  his  collabora- 
tor writes  an  almost  illegible  hand  and  uses  lead- 
pencil  that  effaces  itself  in  transit,  so  the 
wretched  Stephen,  while  knowing  that  he  is 
rated  and  reviled,  can  only  guess  at  the  exact 
drift  of  the  ratings  and  revilings  :  a  pleasant  part 
in  truth.  Mr.  Biggleswade  began  by  insisting 
on  a  masque  and  anti-masque,  and  when 
Stephen  objected,  as  anachronistic  stage  direc- 
tions, to  "enter  Cupid  in  a  yellow  hair,"  and  "the 
Masquers  are  discovered  seated  in  their  several 
sieges,"  Mr.  Biggleswade  dealt  with  the  demur 
as  if  it  were  an  affair  of  pistols  for  two,  coffee  for 
one.  Has  not  Shakespeare  in  the  "Midsummer 
Night's  Dream"  himself  parodied  the  Eliza- 
bethan Society's  theories?  The  Elizabethan  So- 
ciety seems,  at  last,  to  have  reached  Paris,  and 
"Measure  for  Measure"  is  to  be  put  upon  the 
stage  after  its  primitive  methods.  But  it  is  the 
older  Parisian  attempts  to  give  Shakespeare  that 
are  amusing.  To  carry  King  Lear  on  to  the 
stage  upon  a  bed  of  roses,  to  enable  him  to  see 
the  sunrise,  was  a  charming  notion. 

A  letter  from  Mrs.  Vivian  was  waiting  for  me. 

288 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Her  charity  is  to  be  found,  not  in  her  words,  but 
in  her  deeds,  and  she  writes  from  Maricnbad  to 
say  that  she  wishes  she  could  beheve  that  "sem- 
per Augustus"  and  Laura  would  irritate  each 
other  as  much  as  they  irritate  her.  "And  I  con- 
gratulate you  on  losing  your  place  of  Bonne  a 
tout  fake.  Lady  Etchingham  will  now  indulge 
in  paid  servants,  I  trust.  But  the  poor  in  intel- 
lect being  always  with  us,  some  other  silly 
woman  will  most  likely  tack  herself  on  to  you 
now."  Mrs.  Vivian  wishes  to,  know  what  is  to 
become  of  "that  lovely  child."  That  lovely 
child's  father.  Colonel  Leagrave,  is  most  oppor- 
tunely coming  home  for  good  this  autumn,  and 
Stephen  talks  of  going  as  far  East  as  time  will 
allow  to  meet  him.  The  Vivians  speak  of  India 
for  the  winter  too.  "Why  does  not  Sir  Richard 
take  a  jungle?  Would  it  not  amuse  him?"  Mrs. 
Vivian  asks.  When  you  know  that  the  omnipo- 
tent "Hugo  Ennismore"  and  "Jock  Home-Len- 
nox" are  taking  jungles,  you  will,  she  thinks,  be 
disposed  to  follow  suit.  The  P.  and  O.  that 
takes  out  the  Vivians,  including  Blanche,  will  be 
the  boat,  I  think,  in  which  Stephen  will  engage  a 
berth.  He  talks  to  Minnie  but  he  looks  at 
Blanche,  and  Blanche  won't  sit  by  silent  and 
hear  him  pulled  to  pieces  by  her  mother.  But 
the  Stephen  and  Blanche  romance,  if  it  exists,  is 
the  other  side  of  our  border,  and  there  will  be  lit- 
tle of  Stephen  left  for  romantic  or  other  pur- 
poses if  Mr.  Biggleswade  does  not  soon  tame 
down. 

289 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

"People  must  be  beginning  to  fight  shy  of  Ada 
Llanelly,  your  brother  Harry's  old  flame,"  Mrs. 
Vivian  also  tells  me.  "She  has  become  so  ab- 
normally civil  to  every  respectable  old  female 
bore  in  the  place.  This  is  quite  a  new  thing.  She 
todies  Lady  Clementine  Mure,  to  whom  she 
used  to  be  frightfully  ofT-hand  and  rude,  and 
Lady  Clementine  is  made  very  nervous  by  the 
unprovoked  attentions,  as  she  does  not  give  balls 
or  anything.  She  thinks  Ada  would  never  take 
so  much  trouble  unless  she  meant  to  marry  her 
boy — the  conceited  clever  one  who  has  just  got 
a  decent  appointment  in  Egypt. 

Azore  is  now  with  us.  Azore  with  his  bangles, 
his  silver-backed  brushes,  his  blue  silk  wadded 
dressing-gown,  for  wearing  should  the  nights  be 
chilly  when  he  is  recently  clipped,  his  gilded 
basket,  and  his  crystal  water-trough,  on  which 
"Azore,"  in  gold  letters,  is  engraved.  Mrs. 
Vivian  refused  to  leave  him  in  Minnie's  charge 
whilst  she  was  abroad.  "Minnie  has  no  sense  of 
justice,  and  she  would  let  the  dog  see  that  she 
preferred  that  abominable  little  Trixy  to  him. 
And  if  she  found  a  bite  upon  the  small  boys  she 
would  be  certain  to  accuse  Azore."  So  Azore 
is  here,  bounding  and  bouncing  as  poodles  can. 
He  nearly  flung  "semper  Augustus"  just  now. 
The  only  personality  he  respects  is  Trelawney's. 
Trelawney  has  but  to  meet  his  eye  and  he  retires, 
saddened  and  solemnised. 

It  is  very  good  to  me  to  hear  what  you  say  of 
290 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

"the   hovel   called  Tolcarne"— "that  it  is   wide 
enough  to  hold  us  both."    Of  course,  that  would 
be,  as  you  know  quite  well,  what  I  would  like 
best.     But  while  you  have  Margaret  I  will  not 
come    permanently.     Though    Margaret    would 
not  admit  it  even  to  herself,  I  think  that  things 
as  they  are  suit  her  best.      They  would  have 
suited  me  best,  far,  if  I  were  in  her  place.     (I 
would  not  wish  aunt  Jane  brought  in  were   I 
keeping  house  for  my  father.)    The  child  was  in 
the  state  of  pupilage  when  she  and  I  were  to- 
gether at  Tolcarne.    I  might  not  always  seem  to 
remember  that  it  is  more  her  house  and  garden 
now   than   mine,  and  creatures   of  her   age   are 
jealous  of  prerogative.    Nature  did  not  make  me 
a  "peace  at  any  price"  soul ;  but  close  proximity 
to   Laura  has  afifected  me  with  nervousness,   I 
suppose,  and  I  have  come  to  fear  the  very  ghosts 
and  shadows  of  jars  and  misunderstandings  with 
those  for  whom  I  care  as  I  care  for  your  children. 
When  you  are  bereaved  of  Margaret,  I  will 
come  like  a  shot,  and  be  thankful  to  come,  and 
will  quarrel  with  you  over  bindings  as  often  as 
you  like,  for  binding  quarrels  are  not  the  misun- 
derstandings that  I  dread,  and  my  courage  re- 
m.ains  high  for  such  encounters.    (Not  that  I  did 
quarrel  with  you  over  Colonel  Tod's  uniform,  for 
I  gave  in  then,  and  am  still  ready  to  admit  that 
mine  was  a  poor  khaki  suggestion  compared  to 
the  Durbar  finery  in  which  the  gallant  gentle- 
man is  now  clad.)     And  Margaret  will  marry. 
She  will   marry  all  too   soon   for  your   wishes, 

291 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

probably,  and  then  I  will  pack  up  Trelawney  and 
les  singing  birds,  label  myself  and  the  baggage 
"Tolcarne,"  and  inflict  myself  upon  you  for  life. 
"Port  after  stormie  seas." 

Your  loving  sister, 

Elizabeth. 

P.S. — Send  me  some  rosemary.  You  took  the 
temperate  climate,  of  which  you  boasted  to 
Laura,  away  in  your  portmanteau  seemingly, 
and  London  is  oppressive  and  not  rosemary- 
scented. 


292 


XLIV. 

From  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Tolcarne,  to  Miss 
Elisabeth  Etchingham,  83  Hans  Place,  S.W. 

My  dear  Elizabeth, — It  was  a  pity  to  miss 
you,  but  it  could  not  have  been  much  of  a  meet- 
ing. I  wonder  whether  our  devious  course 
(Margaret's,  Jem's,  and  mine)  has  been  made  at 
all  clear  to  you  by  a  hasty  telegram  and  three  or 
four  sleepy  post-cards.  Jem  turned  up  to  dinner 
on  our  last  evening,  having  got  free  of  torment- 
ing his  yovmg  men  at  Oxbridge,  and  with  no 
plans  for  the  next  week  or  so,  but  wanting  a 
great  deal  of  fresh  air;  and  I  asked  him  if  Tol- 
carne air  would  not  serve  as  well  as  any  other; 
and  he  liked  the  notion,  but  begged  to  be  left  to 
come  in  his  own  fashion ;  and  then  it  occurred 
to  us  that  it  might  be  good  sport  if  we  all  made 
a  wheeling  tour  together  part  of  the  way,  leaving 
Jem  to  complete  the  rest  at  fifteen  miles  an  hour 
if  he  chose.  Thereupon  Jem  sketched  out, 
straight  ofif,  three  or  four  alternative  plans  to 
suit  various  winds  and  weathers.  Laura's  feel- 
ings might  be  shocked  at  hearing  of  such  a  de- 
parture, but  we  considered  that  her  happiness 
would  make  her  comparatively  tolerant,  and 
bound  her  to  be  dignified.  Indeed,  she  may  not 
realise  the  facts  at  all. 

293 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

And  so  the  morning,  being  fine  with  a  Hght 
north-easterly  breeze,  found  us  at  Slough.  We 
caught  Arthur  and  Lytewell  for  a  passing  salu- 
tation, and  had  a  lovely  ride  through  Windsor 
Park,  up  Queen  Anne's  ride  and  across  the  head 
of  the  Long  Walk,  and  out  through  wood  and 
warren  across  the  western  end  of  Virginia 
Water.  They  say  foreigners  envy  us  our  parks 
and  turf;  I  know  I  envied  them  in  India.  But 
how  should  Continentals  not  envy  a  country 
which — but  for  mere  flea-bites  of  civil  broils,  and 
those  fading  into  historic  distance — has  had  cen- 
turies of  peace  within  its  own  borders?  Not  the 
least  wise  of  Maine's  wise  sayings  was  when  he 
pointed  out  this  wonderful  good  fortune  of  Eng- 
land, and  told  us — or  rather  left  us,  as  his  way 
was,  to  read  the  counsel  between  the  lines — not 
to  be  pufTed  up  with  any  folly  about  our  merits 
or  our  fathers'  having  deserved  it.  But  the  Muse 
of  the  historic  present  tells  of  a  wheatsheaf 
which,  notwithstanding  its  vegetable  name,  hath 
flesh-pots ;  of  that  wheatsheaf  as  a  tempter ;  and 
of  Jem  the  strenuous — whether  as  leading  the 
party  into  temptation,  or  hardening  their  hearts 
to  push  on  in  the  direct  line  to  some  humliler  en- 
tertainment, it  boots  not  to  mention.  Enough 
that  we  sped  on  through  the  land  of  Bagshot, 
skirting  the  odorous  fir-woods  of  the  Welling- 
ton College  country.  Jem  is  indignant  with 
those  who  say  cyclists  observe  nothing,  and 
maintains  that  the  noiseless  approach  of  the 
pneumatic  wheel  gives  them  special  advantages. 

294 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

A  yaffle,  sitting  just  inside  the  bank  of  a  fir- 
plantation,  got  up  within  a  few  feet  of  us  to  jus- 
tify him. 

We  cunningly  avoided  Aldershot  (the  cun- 
ning, of  course,  was  Jem's)  to  earn  our  rest  in 
Farnham.  There  my  lord  bishop  has  a  park 
almost  as  fine  as  the  Queen's,  and  a  castle  of  all 
dates  from  the  Dark  Ages  to  the  Restoration, 
but  scant  leisure  for  enjoying  either :  for  they  tell 
me  he  bustles  about  like  a  mediaeval  king  of 
England,  and  is  seldom  more  than  three  days 
together  in  one  place.  Lazy  bishops,  I  take  it, 
are  about  as  common  in  England  now  as 
hookah-smoking  nabobs  in  India,  and  the  fabu- 
lous wealth  of  both  is  equally  extinct.  I  should 
not  have  said  fabulous,  though,  for  the  colleges 
founded  by  Wykeham  and  Fox  are  no  fables. 
Have  not  we  moderns  lost  something  of  the 
noble  use  of  wealth? 

Talking  of  India,  Harry  is  hard  at  work  in 
Cairo  at  something  which  I  suspect  to  be  ex- 
periments with  high  explosive  shells ;  I  know  he 
was  making  a  speciality  of  such  things  before  he 
went  to  the  Intelligence  Department.  (There 
was  another  experiment  he  offered  to  try  a 
month  or  two  ago,  but  the  chance  never  came. 
We  met  some  American  ladies  who  were  rather 
nervous  about  the  chances  of  a  Spanish  fleet 
bombarding  their  country  house  on  the  coast 
somewhere  near  Salem.  Harry  tried  to  reassure 
them  by  undertaking  to  eat  the  bursting  charge 
of  every  Spanish  shell  that  fell  on  New  Eng- 

295 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

land  or  any  other  American  ground.  They 
ought  to  feel  safe  by  this  time.)  Well,  Harry 
observes  a  proper  discretion  as  to  his  doings  and 
probable  movements :  only  he  gives  me  to  un- 
derstand that  he  is  not  likely  to  go  to  the  front. 
A  man  can't  well  complain  of  being  put  to  con- 
fidential work  which  he  is  particularly  fit  for,  and 
which  will  not  be  forgotten  in  the  proper  quar- 
ter, though  the  public  know  nothing  of  it.  But 
I  guess  he  is  a  little  disappointed.  I  cannot  be 
sorry  for  the  chance  of  seeing  him  back  sooner 
in  an  honourable  way.  We  have  all  earned  our 
peace,  I  think. 

From  Farnham  to  Winchester  is  a  well-beaten 
highway,  and  in  part  rather  dull  when  judged  by 
the  high  standard  of  Surrey  and  Hampshire 
picturesqueness.  Yet  it  is  a  good  road  and  a 
good  ride,  and  we  paid  our  respects  to  Jane  Aus- 
ten's house  at  Chawton,  which  is  on  one  of  the 
prettiest  bits.  From  puzzling  remarks  made  to 
us  about  our  country  we  gathered  that  we  were 
taken  for  Americans.  Almost  every  visitor  who 
inquires  for  Miss  Austen's  house  is  an  Ameri- 
can, it  seems,  and  we  were  classed  according  to 
the  presumption  founded  on  experience.  Per- 
haps English  callers  will  increase  now,  since 
Miss  Austen  is  decidedly  in  fashion,  to  judge 
by  the  number  of  recent  editions  and  the  figure 
they  make  in  the  bookshops.  The  length  of  the 
villages  or  small  towns  along  this  road  is  curi- 
ous ;  it  looks  as  if  everybody  had  insisted  on  hav- 
ing a  frontage  to  the  turnpike — all  highway  and 

296 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

no  byway.  On  the  whole,  the  effect  is  pleasing 
and  sociable,  even  if  it  verges  on  fraud  for  a 
place  like  Alton  to  be  nearly  a  mile  long. 

You  should  know  Winchester  better  than  I 
do.  There  is  a  special  reverence  due  to  the 
school  from  Eton  men,  for  if  Henry  VI.  was  our 
father,  William  of  Wykeham  was  our  grand- 
father; not  only  was  his  foundation  our  pious 
founder's  model,  but  Eton  was  actually  started 
with  a  colony  of  Winchester  boys.  Apart  from 
that,  it  is  one  of  the  most  famous  and  also  one 
of  the  most  delectable  places  in  England.  A 
small  thing  that  greatly  took  my  fancy  was  the 
clear  trout  stream  that  runs  along  between  the 
main  street  and  the  public  garden,  where  the 
fish — and  sizeable  fish,  too — well  knowing  that 
they  may  not  be  caught  by  tickling,  angling,  or 
otherwise,  lie  out  on  the  gravel  in  full  view,  and 
do  not  trouble  themselves  to  move  even  if  you 
drop  in  pebbles  over  them.  I  should  like  to  be- 
lieve King  Alfred  put  them  there. 

Finally,  we  took  the  train  to  Salisbury — Mar- 
garet and  I,  that  is — reserving  the  New  Forest 
for  some  other  time.  Jem,  as  route-finder  and 
guide,  took  charge  of  sending  forward  all  the 
impediments,  so  that  we  had  next  to  no  weight 
to  carry,  and  enjoyed  the  riding  thoroughly. 
Jem's  own  things  are  now  being  carted  up  from 
Buckland  Road  station,  and  we  expect  him  at 
some  uncertain  time  this  evening. 

The  Folletts  have  been  back  some  few  days : 
they  have  been  strolling  among  French  castles 

297 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

and  churches,  and  winding  up  their  tour  at  a 
very  modest  Norman  watering-place  not  far 
from  Wilham  the  Conqueror's  reputed  port  of 
embarkation.  A  friendly  and  cheerful  country, 
Mr.  Follett  says,  where  all  the  villages  have 
double  names,  grand  in  proportion  to  the  small- 
ness  of  the  village.  Who  would  not  be  proud 
/of  having  to  walk  a  mile  or  two  to  buy  his, 
1  stamps  at  Sassetot-le-Mauconduit?  And  at 
Angerville-le-Martel  Mr.  Follett  bought  a  fabu- 
lously cheap  pair  of  slippers,  which  he  declares 
are  the  best  he  ever  had.  Breaute-Beuzeville  is 
a  name  of  noble  and  historic  sound ;  the  place  is 
in  fact  a  small  railway  junction.  Perhaps,  the 
Vicar  thinks,  it  was  the  place  of  origin  of  the 
wicked  Fawkes  de  Breaute,  who  at  last  for  his 
sins  died  suddenly  by  poison,  and  was  found,  as 
the  chronicler  relates,  "dead,  black,  stinking, 
and  intestate" — this  last,  it  seems,  a  terrible  com- 
bination of  spiritual  and  temporal  opprobrium. 
Much  pleased  was  Mr.  Follett  at  being  able  to 
revive  his  old  pastime  of  swimming  to  his  heart's 
content  under  civilised  conditions,  and  without 
anybody  thinking  it  the  least  odd  for  a  reverend 
gentleman  of  his  age.  Sea-bathing  is  certainly 
one  of  the  matters  they  order  better  in  France. 
We  have  never  grasped  the  possibility  of  fitting 
it  into  social  life,  or  the  case  of  making  it  a 
decorous  and  even  graceful  form  of  social 
amusement.  In  America  they  wisely  do  as  the 
French  do,  I  understand — yes,  in  Puritan  New 
England ;  while  we  continue  to  flatter  ourselves 

298 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

that  there  is  some  occult  virtue,  some  fetish  that 
ensures  British  success,  in  our  stupid  neglect  to 
study  human  amenity.  Such  are  our  joint  re- 
flections, the  Vicar's  and  mine,  in  our  afternoon 
stroll — which  somehow  gets  much  entangled  in 
our  respective  gardens.  Enticknap  is  muttering 
about  things  being  cruel  dry,  and  we  are  rather 
anxious  for  the  late  summer. 

The  story  of  Biggleswade  and  Leagrave 
caused  Mr.  Follett  to  smile  a  rather  grim  smile. 
I  have  a  notion  that  he  knows  Biggleswade's 
Bishop  fairly  well.  One  day  or  another  I  hope 
the  creature  may  be  choked  off,  before  he 
reaches  the  plaintiff-in-person  stage ;  not  that  I 
care  the  least  about  his  making  a  fool  of  himself, 
but  Leagrave  has  already  had  quite  as  much 
annoyance  as  he  deserves. 

Margaret  and  I  are  both  all  the  better  for  our 
expedition,  I  assure  you,  and  still  have  increased 
appetites,  Jem  was  most  ingenious  and  consid- 
erate in  laying  out  the  stages  so  that  we  were 
never  hurried.  When  he  wanted  to  let  off  his 
own  superfluous  energy  he  did  it  by  pushing 
ahead  to  order  lunch  or  see  that  our  quarters 
were  all  right.  Behold,  as  I  close  this,  he  rides 
up  like  a  catharine-wheel  device  of  white  dust, 
overhauling  the  messenger  with  the  letter-bag. 

Your  loving 

DiCKORY. 


399 


XLV. 

From  Miss  Elizabeth  Etchingham,  83  Hans  Place, 
to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Tolcarne. 

"Dear  and  Respectable  Sir," — Thank  you 
very  much  for  the  letter,  the  copy  of  Sir  John 
Davis's  poems,  and  the  stack  of  rosemary  just 
received — 

("Up  and  down  and  everywhere 
I  strew  the  herbs  to  purge  the  air"). 

Your  binder,  Richard,  has  mended  Sir  John 
Davis's  back  perfectly,  I  will  appoint  him  spinal 
instrument  maker-in-ordinary  to  my  old  authors. 
I  like  my  present  and  I  like  the  verse  you  wrote 
on  the  flyleaf.  To  whose  garden  of  poetry  did 
you  go  to  gather  it?  (Don't  forget  to  answer 
this.)  And  my  birthday  has  brought  me  other  de- 
sirable possessions.  Mrs.  Vivian,  whom  we 
should  all  think  as  kind  as  she  really  is,  did  she 
not  tell  us  to  the  contrary,  sent  me  by  the  hand 
of  Minnie  an  old  Psalm  Book — the  white  silk 
cover  embroidered  in  silver  and  coloured  threads 
by  the  Nuns  of  Little  Gidding.  And  Charles 
presented  me  with  an  efficacious  umbrella,  which 
confirms  my  opinion  that  character  shows  itself 
in  gifts.    (Charles  brought  his  son  when  he  last 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

visited  us,  and  little  Harry  clamoured  to  be  taken 
home  on  the  ceiling  of  the  omnibus.)  Mrs.  Vivian 
journeys  homeward  from  Marienbad  almost  im- 
mediately. She  tells  me  that  Ada  Llanelly  is  now 
"glueing  herself  to  that  horrible  Mrs.  Potters, 
who  has  turned  up  here  and  means  to  winter  in 
Egypt,  and  Lady  Clementine's  dread  that  Ada 
intends  to  marry  her  boy,  who  will  be  at  Cairo, 
too,  has  increased  to  panic  point.  But  she  surely 
would  find  your  brother  Harry  less  tiresome. 
George  Mure  may  be  clever,  but  for  choice  I  pre- 
fer the  cleverness  that  doesn't  make  every  one 
brought  in  contact  with  it  feel  qualified  for 
Earlswood."  Lady  Clementine  has  given  up 
Christian  Science.  Her  son-in-law,  according  to 
Mrs.  Vivian,  informed  her  in  harsh  positive 
tones  that  it  was  "all  rubbish,"  and  the  poor  wo- 
man's state  is  again — "to  what  God  shall  we  now 
ofifer  up  our  sacrifice?" 

That  Harry  does  not  go  to  the  front  is,  to  a 
craven  like  myself,  most  excellent  news.  He 
wrote  to  Cynthia  after  receiving  the  tidings  of  the 
Pampesford  engagement.  He  wrote,  and  wrote 
in  that  mystic  diction  that  expresses  less  than  is 
by  it  understood.  It  amused  me  to  find  that 
Harry — guileless  Harry — knew  in  advance  of 
"semper  Augustus's"  invasion  of  Scotland,  and 
kept  his  own  counsel,  which  is  yet  another  in- 
stance of  the  secretive  effect  of  falling  in  love. 
Cynthia  showed  me  his  letter  not  very  long  after 
she  received  it.  And  she  answered  it,  and  I  do 
not  believe  that  there  were  as  many  words  in  the 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

epistle  as  it  took  minutes  to  write  them.  Then 
she  went  on  posting  errand  herself.  I  wish  sec- 
ond sight  could  have  enabled  Harry  to  see  his 
postwoman  escorting  her  letter  the  first  stage  of 
the  way.  When  all  of  a  sudden  no  member  of  a 
household,  no  proven  friend,  well-loved  relation, 
faithful  servant,  is  to  be  trusted  to  post  a  letter, 
the  letter-writer  is  perhaps  rather  far  gone 
through  the  faery  land  of  Romance. 

The  confession  of  Harry's  devotion  took  Cyn- 
thia by  surprise,  but  as  soon  as  the  shock  of  the 
surprise  had  passed  she  realised,  I  think,  how 
much  he  was  to  her.  She  accepted  us  all,  you  see, 
as  relations ;  and  had  this  been  otherwise, 
Harry's  demeanour  has  misled  less  unsophisti- 
cated beings.  That  half-chafiing,  half-solicitous, 
and  wholly  courteous  manner  of  his  may  mean 
everything  or  nothing.  If  she  was  slow  to  know 
her  own  mind,  I  myself  am  disposed  to  sympa- 
thise with  the  mind  slow  in  such  recognition. 
She  is  a  dear,  good  child,  and  I  think  we 
may  feel  quite  happy  and  content  about  her 
and  about  Harry,  for,  soon  or  syne,  Ada  Llanelly 
at  Cairo  or  not  at  Cairo,  all  I  believe  will  be  well. 

Did  I  tell  you  that  Mrs.  Carstairs  has  lent 
Laura  her  house  at  Wimbledon,  and  it  is  to  be 
our  headquarters  till  the  day  that  turns  our  step- 
mother into  a  Pampesford?  (Laurel  Lawn, 
Wimbledon,  is  the  address.)  Mr.  Weekes  has 
been  found — at  Worthing.  Worthing  somehow 
seems  to  befit  Mr.  Weekes  as  environment.  Sir 
Augustus  is  most  attentive.     Laura  beams  and 

30a 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

bridles.  It  is  all  quite  delightful  and  studded 
with  diamonds  and  ushered  in  on  massive  gold 
plate. 

We  dined  with  the  Pampesford  family  last 
night.  The  house,  as  Harry  said  of  Mrs.  Pot- 
ters's  house,  reeks  of  money.  And  though  the 
contents,  taken  separately,  are  really  above  re- 
proach, yet  the  whole  effect  is  not  beautiful  in 
the  least,  but  boastful  and  nothing  more,  I  was 
then  and  there  convinced  that  even  Corots  and 
Millets  can  be  vulgarized  by  the  machinations  of 
frame-makers  ancl  paper-hangers,  and  that  old 
Italian  cabinets  and  old  Persian  prayer-rugs  can 
be  over-done  up  and  over-done  till  they  speak  of 
nothing  but  bank-notes.  The  very  flowers — 
poor  dears,  what  a  shame ! — looked  purse-proud. 
I  came  home,  determined  that  when  my  room 
next  needs  decorating,  it  shall  be  decorated  d  la 
cell.  There  is  no  "moss"  in  that  Palace  Gardens 
house,  no  refining  touch  of  utility.  I  would 
give  its  plenishings  from  roof  to  basement  for 
the  contents  of  my  mother's  sitting-room  at  Tol- 
carne.  (I  hope  Mrs.  Enticknap  attended  to  in- 
structions and  re-arranged  everything  after  we 
came  away  as  it  was  before  Laura's  reign.) 
Dreams  have  a  trick  of  reverting  to  the  past  for 
their  background;  and  I  dream  of  that  room 
sometimes  now,  and  think  I  see  the  David  Cox 
water-colours,  the  delft  china,  the  old  lacquer 
cabinet,  in  which  the  mother-of-pearl  fish 
counter  lived  with  which  we  used  to  play  at  com- 
merce,   the     tortoise-shell     workbox,    the    oval 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

hand-screens  upon  the  chimney-piece  with  their 
faint  embroidery  of  faded  flowers — but  I  need 
not  write  an  inventory  of  that  upper  chamber  in 
your  very  own  house.  Don't  you  like  an  upstairs 
country  sitting-room  where  the  windows  are  on  a 
level  with  the  heart  of  a  tree?  Especially  when 
the  tree  is  a  cedar-tree,  and  the  windows  give 
upon  the  west,  and  the  sunset  is  to  be  seen 
framed  by  the  great  level  cedar-boughs?  And 
when  the  windows  of  a  room  are  on  a  level 
with  the  heart  of  a  tree,  the  birds  come  so  de- 
lightfully near.  I  trust  that  the  jays  have  not 
been  improved  away  from  the  Wellington  Col- 
lege fir-woods.  The  flash  of  blue  wings  used  to 
spangle  those  shades  as  with  gleams  of  blue  fire. 
Back  to  our  Pampesford  dinner  after  this 
country  excursion  I  go.  The  company  was  just 
what  we  might  have  expected.  Apathetic  or  rest- 
lessly ill-at-ease  women  "stuck  o'er,"  not  "with 
yew"  but  diamonds.  Men  who  looked — what 
did  they  look  ?  I  don't  know.  What  I  do  know  is 
that,  from  these  persons,  Cynthia  and  Stephen  in 
appearance  and  manner  seemed  as  far  removed 
as  do  the  etchings  of  M.  Helleu  from  Gustave 
Dore's  oil  paintings,  or  as  the  "Voyage  autour 
de  ma  Chambre"  does  from  the  "Dampshire 
Times's"full  report  of  the  wedding  gifts  to  a  local 
bride  and  bridegroom.  The  heat  was  asphyxiat- 
ing. I  sat  nerving  myself  to  see  the  scarlet, 
choleric-looking  gentlemen  on  either  side  of  me 
fall  insensible  into  their  priceless  china  plates. 
The  dinner  was  abnormally  long.    There  was  far 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

too  much  dinner — there  was  far  too  much  of 
everything  that  money  brings. 

But  never  you  trouble,  dear,  to  describe  femi- 
nine attire  to  me  again.  You  said  that  the  Miss 
Pampesfords'  apparel,  even  to  your  eyes,  looked 
antique.  Antique  !  No,  Dickory.  They  go  clad 
in  the  latest  fashion.  The  colouring  sombre  cer- 
tainly, as  becomes  the  w^earers'  ages,  but  you  will 
be  calling  Mrs.  Vivian  dcinodcc  next.  My  old 
black  rags  and  Cynthia's  new  white  frock  were 
nowhere  beside  our  hostesses'  splendour,  and 
even  the  gown  that  Blake  terms  "her  ladyship's 
best  ruby"  was  cowed  by  the  splendid  trappings 
of  Laura's  future  sisters-in-law.  The  Miss 
Pampesfords'  minds  may  be  dowdy,  but  their 
raiment,  believe  me,  is  not. 

It  must  be  fear  of  mankind,  I  think,  that  fright- 
ens the  old  ladies  into  the  paroxysms  of  per- 
turbed silence  that  you  described.  They  talked 
quite  freely  the  other  evening,  not  during  dinner 
certainly,  nor  did  it  seem  to  occur  to  the  various 
editions  of  Dives  present  that  their  hostesses 
were  there  to  be  spoken  to.  Stephen  made  valiant 
attempts  to  storm  the  citadel  of  Miss  Teresa's 
dumb  embarrassment,  but  sank  back  in  his  chair 
with  a  look  of  profoundest  depression  and  mental 
exhaustion  about  the  period  of  the  fish.  After 
dinner,  however,  there  was  a  buzz  of  talk.  Laura 
told  everybody  what  she  could  digest,  or  rather 
what  she  could  not.  ("Je  ne  digere  pas  bien"  is 
nowadays  a  well-worn  theme.)  And  Miss 
Pampesford  recommended  digestive  biscuits,  and 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

Miss  Teresa  recommended  digestive — I  forget 
what.  It  was  eleven  o'clock  before  poor  Stephen 
and  the  rest  of  the  company  "joined  us,"  and  as 
Laura  wished  to  go  on  somewhere  we  had  not  to 
wait  long  for  the  order  of  release. 

Elsenham  Market  Hall,  Suffolk:  Sunday. 

Alice  needed  an  excuse  for  the  warding  off  of 
Mrs.  Ware,  and  so  sent  for  me,  and  I  kept  my 
letter  back  to  give  you  news  of  her.  Mrs.  Ware 
is  one  of  those  gruesomely  disposed  persons  who 
insist  upon  the  etiquette  and  pomp  of  woe.  Do 
you  remember  Harry's  story  of  the  resentment  of 
his  servant's  widow,  because  the  poor  man's  fu- 
neral paraphernalia  did  not  include  "plumes"  ? — 
"I  did.  Sir,  count  upon  plumes."  Mrs.  Ware 
counts  upon  plumes,  and  comes  periodically  to 
see  if  Alice  is  mourning  in  orthodox  fashion  and 
if  the  crape  is  deep  as  can  be  upon  both  her  skirt 
and  her  soul.  I  prefer  "soldiers'  sadness"  to 
plumes. 

"What  his  funerals  lacked 
In  images  and  pomp  they  had  supplied 
With  honourable  sorrow,  soldiers'  sadness, 
A  kind  of  silent  mourning,  such  as  men 
Who  know  no  tears,  but  from  their  captives'  use 
To  shew  in  so  great  losses." 

You  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  Alice  is  in  rather 
better  case  than  I  had  gathered  from  former  re- 
ports, and  Mr.  Shipley,  who,  by  the  way,  says  his 
work  will  take  him  to  Winchester  next  week — 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

thinks,  too,  that  she  has  turned  the  corner.  She 
does  not  seem  quite  as  restless  or  look  quite  as 
over-driven  as  she  did.  This  is  peaceful,  pleasant 
enough  country — the  country  that  Constable 
painted — and  the  Stour  threads  the  meadows 
through  which  this  morning  we  walked  to 
church.  I  would  give  the  languid  Stour  from 
start  to  finish  for  a  span  of  the  least  Highland 
burn  that  splashes  the  heather,  but  Alice  likes  this 
country,  and  the  country  cottage  people  like  her. 

I  hope  and  believe  that  her  life  will  fill  itself 
with  wholesome  interests,  and  that  she  may 
recover  as  much  tranquillity,  if  not  happiness, 
as  has  to  serve  for  many  a  one.  She  is  unselfish, 
and  so,  when  not  harassed  and  fretted  almost  be- 
yond endurance,  she  will  find  pleasure  in  the 
well-being  of  others.  I  don't  say  that  she  will 
not  pauperise  the  village,  but  there  are  infirm 
aged  folk  and  ailing  babies  whose  moral  fibre 
will  not  be  permanently  injured  by  a  rather  over- 
lavish  distribution  of  supplies.  Poor  Colonel 
Newton  was  for  ever  denouncing  "useless  vaga- 
bonds" and  "able-bodied  beggars  who  would  not 
work."  Very  likely  there  was  some  truth  in  his 
indictment ;  but  we  may  perhaps  hope  that  we 
are  not  doing  much  harm  by  smoothing  the  last 
stretch  of  the  way  for  the  old  and  feeble,  and 
trying  to  make  pain  less  for  a  sick  or  crippled 
child. 

Alice  is  full  of  dreamy  fancies,  always.  She 
would  not  be  Alice  if  she  were  not.  But  her 
fancies  bring  hope  and  comfort  to  her,  and  why 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

they  should  excite  Mrs.  Ware's  disapproval  and 
suspicion  I  don't  know.  "Have  you  ever  no- 
ticed," she  said  to  me  just  now,  "that  when  the 
birds  spread  their  wings  to  fly  they  make  the 
sign  of  the  cross?" 

The  post  goes  early  to-day,  so  good-bye, 

Elizabeth. 

N.B. — "I'ya  longtemps  que  je  t'aime. 
Jamais  je  ne  t'oublierai." 


30S 


XLVI. 

From  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Tolcarnc,  to  Miss 
Elizabeth  Etchingham,  Laurel  Lazvn,  Wim- 
bledon. 

My  dear  Elizabeth, — Our  only  positive 
news  is  that  Arthur  is  home  for  the  hoHdays 
(having  missed  you  in  London  by  your  excur- 
sion into  Suffolk) ;  and  the  Folletts  expect  Ship- 
ley for  a  short  visit.  Those  charters,  or  whatever 
they  are,  at  Thursborough  seem  not  to  be  ex- 
hausted. Mrs.  Ware  and  her  kind,  who  love  the 
pomp  of  woe,  have  an  ancestry  so  respectable  and 
so  widely  spread  that  one  almost  thinks  their 
frame  of  mind  must  be  the  real  primitive  human 
nature.  It  flourishes  in  the  West  country,  as 
witness  the  dialogue  between  a  groom  and  his 
uncle,  overheard  in  a  Devonshire  stable,  and  re- 
corded among  the  sayings  of  Mr.  Hicks  of 
Bodmin : 

'Well,  Jem,  you  didn't  come  to  Betsey's  bury- 
ing?" 

"No,  Uncle,  I  couldn't  get  away." 

"Ah,  you'd  've  enjied  yourzelf.  We  had  dree 
quarts  of  gin,  one  quart  of  brandy,  and  one  quart 
of  rum,  roast  beef,  and  viggy  pudden." 

Then  a  sighing  eulogium  on  the  "poor,  dear, 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

patient  creature,"  followed  after  a  pause  by  the 
matter-of-fact  information  that  "her  lied  screech- 
ing vower  hours  afore  her  died."  Such  dialogues 
need  Sir  Thomas  Browne  for  a  commentator,  to 
show  us  that  there  is  no  real  break  between  the 
humours  and  the  solemnity  of  life.  Heine  woiild 
have  done  even  better  perhaps,  if  he  had  not  been 
disqualified  by  invincible  ignorance  of  English 
character.  Why  is  it  that  even  the  cleverest  and 
most  painstaking  Continental  writers  arc  apt  to 
make  at  least  one  grotesque  blunder  when  they 
write  about  England?  Of  course,  our  half-edu- 
cated public  make  quite  as  absurd  ones  about 
French,  German,  and  American,  not  to  mention 
Anglo-Indian  matters ;  but  not  our  best  people,  I 
think.  Taine,  I  have  been  told,  was  really  ac- 
curate, and  the  younger  Frenchmen  of  his  school 
are  following  suit ;  for  Darmesteter — a  scholar  of 
quite  original  genius — I  think  I  can  answer.  But 
Jem  won't  admit  that  any  foreigner  has  ever 
touched  English  Universities  with  impunity. 

The  name  of  Darmesteter  reminds  me — you 
will  see  why  directly — of  the  verses  I  copied  on 
Sir  John  Davis's  fly-leaf.  I  thought  you  would 
hardly  guess  whose  they  were. 

"For  in  my  Soul  a  temple  have  I  made, 

Set  on  a  height,  divine,  and  steep  and  far; 
Nor  often  may  I  hope  those  floors  to  tread, 
Or  reach  the  gates  that  glimmer  like  a  star." 

There  is  an  old-world  flavour  about  them,  but 
they  are   very   modern   indeed — Madame  James 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

Darmesteter's.  Her  verse  has  to  me  more  of  the 
real  singing-  quahty  in  it  than  can  be  found  in 
almost  any  of  our  living  poets  junior  to  Mr. 
Swinburne,  save  one — and  that  one  is  a  woman, 
too,  so  there  is  another  guess  for  you.  The 
thought  exactly  marks  the  difference  of  the  nine- 
teenth from  the  seventeenth  century.  Our  specu- 
lation has  travelled  wider,  and  learnt  not  despair, 
as  some  impatient  folk  would  have  it,  but  pa- 
tience and  modesty,  and  the  renunciation  of  ex- 
pecting precise  and  formal  agreement  even  from 
our  dearest  friends. 

Margaret  and  I  have  been  watching  the  educa- 
tion of  Songstress's  puppies  with  deep  interest 
and  occasional  controversy.  Margaret  believes 
that  puppies  and  kittens  are  very  clever  and  re- 
member all  sorts  of  things,  which  I  don't.  But 
we  agree  that  there  is  nothing  more  fascinating 
to  see  than  a  young  creature,  .dog  or  cat,  playing 
with  an  older  one.  Those  who  have  observed  this, 
know  that  there  is  nothing  new  in  the  modern 
tyranny  of  children  over  their  parents.  It  is 
curious,  too,  to  see  how,  with  plentiful  display  of 
teeth  and  claws,  they  manage  never  to  hurt  one 
another.  Enticknap  has  three  kittens  at  his  cot- 
tage, of  whom  we  call  one  Joab,  as  being  "him 
that  first  getteth  up  to  the  gutter" — he  did  it  at 
quite  an  early  age  by  judicious  use  of  a  creeper ; 
the  gutter  of  the  toolhouse  in  the  garden  I  mean. 
So  he  is  "the  agile  Joab,"  as  Margaret  finds  it 
written  in  a  silly  book  of  Scripture  history  that 
Laura  gave  her  once  with  a  view  of  doing  her 

3" 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

good.  The  other  two  are  Sampson  and  FiUpina 
("the  connection  of  which  with  the  plot  one 
sees").  FiUpina  seems  of  a  hvely  disposition 
enough,  but  Sampson  is  at  present  very  proud 
and  shy.  People  used  to  talk  as  if  character 
depended  merely  on  education ;  and  yet,  if  they 
had  kept  their  eyes  open,  they  could  have  seen 
the  most  marked  dififerences  in  character  be- 
tween puppies  and  kittens  of  the  same  litter  at 
a  few  weeks  old.  Which  is  also  rather  bad  for 
astrology,  as  they  must  have  pretty  much  the 
same  horoscope ;  but  no  doubt  an  astrologer 
would  be  ready,  like  all  professors  of  pseudo- 
sciences,  to  patch  the  breach  of  his  fictitious  rule 
by  finding  an  equally  fictitious  exception.  When 
you  have  once  begun  the  business  of  com- 
plicated fallacy,  "cycle  on  epicycle,"  one  fiction 
more  costs  nothing.  Joab  has  climbed  in 
at  the  study  window  and  is  trying  to  eat  the 
feather  end  of  my  pen  while  I  am  writing.  I 
don't  think  he  is  laid  out  for  a  house  cat.  No, 
Joab,  I  am  not  the  Philistines  or  the  children  of 
Ammon  that  you  should  scratch  me,  and  your 
manners  have  not  that  repose  which  elderly  per- 
sons desire  in  a  domestic  companion.  I  love  cats, 
but  a  restless  cat  gets  on  one's  nerves.  I  shall  go 
to  the  stable  and  talk  to  the  snub-nosed  puppies ; 
they  are  rather  soothing.  Cats  have  more  roving 
and  miscellaneous  curiosity  than  dogs ;  a  dog 
begins  to  get  a  working  notion  of  what  concerns 
him  and  what  not  almost  as  soon  as  he  finds  out 
anything ;  and  then  he  proceeds  to  leave  a  lot  of 

312 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

things  alone.  A  cat  is  not  satisfied  till  he  has  ac- 
counted for  everything  in  the  room.  In  other 
words,  the  cat  might  say,  you  mean  that  the 
dog  is  a  business  man,  a  tradesman,  a  pursuer  of 
the  main  chance,  and  I  am  a  philosopher?  That 
is  so.  But  the  cat  would  be  a  sophist,  or  else  (as 
he  is  likely  to  be)  incapable  of  seeing  the  point 
that  the  dog  has  attained  the  state  of  a  sociable 
animal,  which  very  few  cats  do,  though  I  have 
known  it  in  some.  It  is  harder  to  appreciate  cats 
than  dogs,  because  you  want  so  much  more  de- 
tachment ;  in  fact,  you  have  all  the  way  to  go  to 
the  cat,  while  the  dog  comes  half-way  to  meet 
man.  But  it  does  not  follow  that  the  cat  is  the 
nobler  animal.  More  interesting  as  a  study  in 
some  ways,  perhaps.  Arthur  calls  me  to  the  pup- 
pies. He  is  at  the  age  that  distinctly  prefers 
dogs. 

I  have  been  turning  over  Cobbett's  "Rural 
Rides,"  a  book  I  had  not  looked  at  for  many 
years — indeed  I  had  all  but  forgotten  its  exist- 
ence. Cobbett  is  delightful,  not  only  for  his  racy 
downright  English  and  love  of  the  country 
(as  country,  not  as  a  collection  of  subjects  for 
pictures),  but  for  the  perpetual  paradox  of  his 
being  what  he  is.  He  was  a  Tory  by  nature,  if 
ever  there  was  one,  hating  cities,  standing 
armies,  foreign  trees,  free  trade,  paper  money, 
and  Dissenters,  especially  Unitarians.  And  yet 
he  became  famous  as  a  Radical.  If  he  had  come 
a  generation  or  two  later  he  would  have  been  a 
pioneer,  or  at  least  a  pillar,  of  the  new  Toryism. 

313 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

The  wretched  Unitarians  get  the  choicest  vials 
of  his  wrath,  like  this  outpouring  when  he  rides 
past  the  Devil's  Jumps  on  the  way  from  Sel- 
borne  to  Thursley :  "The  Unitarians  will  not  be- 
lieve in  the  Trinity  because  they  cannot  account 
for  it.  Will  they  come  here  to  Churt,  go  and 
look  at  these  Devil's  Jumps,  and  account  to  me 
for  the  placing  of  those  three  hills,  in  the  shape 
of  three  rather  squat  sugar-loaves,  along  in  a 
line  upon  this  heath,  or  the  placing  of  a  rock- 
stone  upon  the  top  of  one  of  them  as  big  as  a 
church  tower?"  And  again,  where  he  says — 
after  mentioning  the  conversion  or  perversion 
of  his  old  friend,  Baron  Maseres,  to  Umtarian- 
ism — 'T  do  most  heartily  despise  this  piggish  set 
for  their  conceit  and  impudence" — and  proceeds 
to  pose  them  with  a  series  of  questions  in  natural 
history,  most  of  them  absurd  and  founded  on 
vulgar  errors,  though  Cobbett  boldly  says  that 
the  facts  are  all  notoriously  true.  The  middle 
one  of  the  seven  questions — "What  causes  horse- 
hair to  become  living  things?" — is  a  fair  speci- 
men. 

Next  to  Unitarians,  Cobbett  hated  Scotch  fir 
and  barren  common  lands.  Hind  Head,  which 
is  now  frequented  for  its  wild  beauty,  is  for  Cob- 
bett "certainly  the  most  villanous  spot  that  God 
ever  made."  It  is  another  question,  whether  the 
increase  of  building,  villas,  boarding-houses, 
convalescent  homes,  and  what  not,  will  not  soon 
cause  Hind  Head  and  several  other  formerly  se- 
cluded places  to  vie  with  one  another  for  being 

314 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

the  most  villanous  blot  on  fair  country  that  man 
ever  made.  But  this  would  be  nothing  to  Cob- 
bett.  Perhaps  he  was  the  last  of  the  writers  on 
rustic  matters  who  frankly  made  no  pretence  to 
an  eye  for  the  picturesque.  He  could  admire  a 
smiling  landscape,  but  a  soil  where  crops  would 
not  grow  was  in  his  vocabulary  ugly,  nasty, 
"spewy,"  or  blackguard. 

And  so  no  more  at  present  from  your  loving 
brother.  Richard. 


315 


XLVII. 

From  Miss  Elizabeth  Etchingham,  Laurel  Lawn, 
Wimbledon,  to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham, 
Tolcarne. 

Dearest  Dickory, — ^Some  folk  prove  incor- 
rigible. I  will  not  be  told  by  post  to  guess.  How 
irritating  you  are !  How  weak-minded  I  am ! 
Had  I  any  real  strength  of  character,  I  should 
sweep  your  provoking  conundrums  out  of  my 
mind  and  have  done  with  them  ;  but  as,  demon,  I 
weakly  desire  to  know  your  opinion  about  every- 
thing, I  let  your  guessing  orders  disturb  me.  I 
went  out  to  buy  a  Tennyson  to  enable  me  to 
come  to  a  conclusion  when  you  last  bade  me 
guess,  but  I  am  not  at  this  hour  going  out  to 
buy  the  works  of  all  the  modern  women  poets. 
Their  name  is  legion.     I  can't  gather 

"into  quires 
The  scattered  nightingales." 

It  would  need  every  van  with  Carter  Paterson's 
name  upon  it  to  bring  the  quires  here,  and  I 
should  be  taken  up  by  the  police  for  obstruction, 
doubtless,  did  I  attempt  the  task. 
The  women  poets  with  whom  I  am  intimate 

316 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

are  the  women  who  Hved  on  the  other  and  more 
romantic  side  of  the  border ;  and  they  are  long 
dead  and  gone.  (I  rather  think  I  Hke  my  verse, 
as  I  like  my  china,  old.)  Jane  Elliot,  Lady  Anne 
Lindsay,  Lady  Wardlaw,  Lady  Nairne.  I  don't 
know  that  women  now  can  write  as  they  did,  but 
then  I  know  little  about  it.  I  have,  however,  an 
acquaintance  among  the  latter-day  Philomels, 
and  she  wrote  this  : 

"Time  brought  me  many  another  friend 

That  loved  me  longer, 
New  love  was  kind,  but  in  the  end 

Old  love  was  stronger. 
Years  come  and  go.     No  New  Year  yet 

Hath  slain  December, 
A.nd  all  that  should  have  cried.  Forget! 

Cries  but — Remember!" 

I  like  the  song.  I  like  the  sentiment.  But  it  was 
not  my  intention  to  quote  verse  to-day  or  to  look 
through  that  cypress  and  rosemary  bordered 
avenue  backward : 

"  'Tis  not  the  air  I  wished  to  play, 
The  strain  I  wished  to  sing; 
My  wilful  spirit  slipped  away 
And  struck  another  string." 

I  meant  to  reprove  you  for  ruffling  a  temper, 
smooth,  till  you  touched  it,  as  an  angel's  wing, 
and  then  to  pass  on  to  Pampesford  and  present 
affairs.  You  would  have  scoffed  to  see  the  fold- 
ing of  your  sister  to  the  heart  of  Miss  Pampes- 

317 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

ford  and  Miss  Teresa  Pampcsford  yesterday. 
This  is  how  the  folding  of  the  heart  befeh  While 
Laura  was  undergoing  the  process  known  as 
"being  fitted"  (she  really  must  be  as  strong  as  a 
horse,  as  she  goes  to  London  and  back  nearly 
every  day  through  this  overwhelming  heat)  I 
thought  I  would  do  a  politeness  and  call  upon 
the  Miss  Pampesfords,  who  had  repeatedly 
begged  me  to  "come  in  and  have  tea  informally." 
I  found  them  alone  and  apparently  unoccupied, 
the  nearest  approach  to  occupation  being  the 
"Times,"  "Morning  Post,"  and  "Illustrated  Lon- 
don News"  neatly  folded  and  lying  upon  a  con- 
sole— I  suppose  you  would  call  the  marble-and- 
gilt  splendour.  I  tried  them  with  various  sub- 
jects and  strove  to  discover  what  really  is  their 
"shop,"  that  I  might  get  them  to  talk  it.  Their 
brother  is  their  "shop."  I  sympathise  with  the 
people  who  have  a  long-standing  craze  for  an- 
other human  creature,  particularly  if  the  other 
human  creature  is  not  of  the  same  sex  as  tlie 
crazed — (don't  betray  this  sentiment  to  Laura 
or  Mrs.  Carstairs) — and  there  is  something  pa- 
thetic in  their  idolisation  of  "Augustus."  After 
a  while  I  began  to  think  that  I  quite  admired 
him  too. 

"I  don't  know  if  we  ought  to  say  it  to  you," 
Miss  Pampesford  said  at  last,  growing  more  and 
more  confidential ;  "but  you  seem  to  feel  kindly, 
and  you  have  brothers  yourself,  and  so  perhaps 
we  should  not  be  misunderstood  if  we  tell  you 
that  our  thankfulness  in  the  prospect  of  Augus- 

318 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

tus's  happiness  is  intensified  by  the  fact  that  for 
many  years  we  feared  that  happiness  would 
never  be  his  again."  "Yes,"  poor  old  Miss  Teresa 
said,  wiping  her  eyes  with  a  magnificently  laced 
handkerchief,  "we  feared  that  happiness  would 
never  be  his  again."  'Tn  the  prime  of  youth," 
Miss  Pampesford  went  on,  "he  became  attached 
to  and  married  a  very  sweet  young  thing.  She 
had  no  fortune  and  no  high-born  connections 
(she  was  a  governess,  my  dear  Miss  Etching- 
ham),  she  had  just  the  fortune  of  a  sweet,  grate- 
ful, lovable  nature,  and  a  most  lovely  face." 
"Yes,"  Miss  Teresa  repeated,  "a  sweet,  grateful, 
lovable  nature,  and  a  most  lovely  face."  "She 
died,  my  dear  Miss  Etchingham,  she  and  the 
dear  little  baby,  on  the  first  anniversary  of  her 
wedding  day."  Poor  Miss  Pampesford  tried  to 
speak  on,  but  her  voice  for  a  moment  or  two 
left  her.  "Ovir  brother,"  she  continued  after 
what  seemed  a  long  pause,  "was  a  changed  man. 
He  would  sit  by  the  hour  silent  and  abstracted, 
scarcely  answering  when  addressed.  It  is  very 
hard,  my  dear  Miss  Etchingham,  to  be  able  to  do 
nothing  to  lessen  the  suffering  of  those  one 
loves."  (It  is.  Do  you  know  anything  very  much 
harder?    I  don't). 

They  have  hearts,  Richard,  and  when  grim  old 
dragons,  even,  have  hearts,  I  like  them.  I  hope 
Laura  won't  trample  them  to  death. 

I  conveyed  Azore  yesterday  to  Prince's  Gar- 
dens that  he  might  there  be  re-united  to  Mrs. 
Viyian  as  she  passed  through  London  on  her 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

way  from  Marienbad  to  Vivian-End.  ("My  saint 
looks  well,"  she  admitted.)  She  has  been  advis- 
ing Lady  Clementine  Mure,  "who  travelled  home 
with  us,  looking,  Elizabeth,  as  we  crossed,  for  all 
the  world  like  un  mouton  qui  reve,"  either  to 
marry  Admiral  Tidenham  or  go  round  the 
world  :  "Admiral  Tidenham,  being  deaf  as  a  post, 
is  cut  out  to  have  a  silly  wife  who  talks  inces- 
santly about  nothing,  as  he  won't  hear  a  word 
she  says."  "You,"  she  told  me,  "are 'still  too 
young  for  marriage,  or  globe-trotting,  as  the 
fashion  now  is.  Wait  till  you  are  fifty."  But  a 
third  alternative  presents  itself  to  Lady  Clem- 
entine. On  board  the  Channel  boat  she  was  the 
thankful  witness  of  Ada  Llanelly's  and  Mr.  Big- 
gleswade's cordial  relations.  (He  was  on  his  way 
back  from  Paris.  "London,"  he  says,  "is  too  sub- 
urban for  me,  I  admit."  You  know,  I  suppose, 
that  he  has  came  into  a  big  fortune?)  "Ada," 
Mrs.  Vivian  tells  me,  "forsook  all  others,  includ- 
ing George  Mure,  and  cleaved  to  Mr.  Biggles- 
wade from  Calais  to  Charing  Cross."  Further- 
more, the  next  morning's  post  brought  a  letter 
from  him  announcing  his  intention  of  leaving  the 
Church,  "as  literary  engagements  and  the  duties 
of  a  landed  proprietor,"  &c.,  &c.  Vivian-End 
living  is  in  Mr.  Vivian's  gift,  and  there  is  a  very 
excellent  "High  Church"  Alick  Mure  (Lady 
Clementine's  youngest  son)  now  half  killing 
himself  and  destroying  his  delicate  lungs  with 
curate's  overwork  in  the  South  London  parish  to 
which  Mrs.  Mvian  plays  Lady  Bountiful.    Alick 

320 


The  Etchingham  Letters        ! 

Mure  will  go  to  that  delightful  rose-and-jasmine 
embowered  Vivian-End  vicarage,  and  poor  rud- 
derless Lady  Clementine  can  make  her  home 
with  him.  He  is  the  only  one  of  her  family  who 
has  never  bullied  or  been  rude  to  her.  She  will, 
of  course,  become  High  Church  too,  and  em- 
broider stoles  and  altar-hangings  in  peaceful  pre- 
cincts for  the  rest  of  her  natural  life.  So  that  is 
all  right. 

Commend  mc  to  your  dogs  and  cats,  your  kit- 
tens and  puppies.  (You  have  not  said  a  word 
lately  of  Tracy.)  Dogs  I  consider  the  most  lov- 
able, cats  the  most  fascinating,  of  animals.  To 
fall  beneath  the  fascination  of  a  cat,  especially  of 
a  Persian  cat,  endowed  both  with  the  languor 
and  the  iire  of  the  East,  is  to  be  under  a  spell. 
Friendship  with  a  dog  means  the  finding  of  a 
dear,  perfect,  sympathetic,  faithful  friend.  I 
don't  know  that  a  cat's  fidelity  is  to  be  trusted. 
When  Azore  ailed  slightly  the  other  day  (he  had 
taken  to  himself  a  ham  from  the  sideboard),  I 
sent  for  his  doctor,  who  gave  me  various  in- 
stances of  the  gratitude  of  dogs  as  patients.  I 
then  inquired  about  horses  as  patients.  "Horses 
have  no  way  to  demonstrate,"  he  said.  "And 
cats?"  I  asked.  The  expression  of  Azore's 
medical  attendant  changed  from  mild  philan- 
thropy to  long  pent-up  indignation.  "Cats !"  he 
exclaimed  with  heat— "I  don't  get  any  grati- 
tude from  cats."  But  this  perhaps  is  an  excep- 
tional experience. 

Treat  kindly  the  little  knot  of  white  heather 

321 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

that  I  enclose.  Some  heather  and  bog-myrtle 
came  just  now  from  Dalruogh.  A  day  or  two 
ago  dear  Mr.  Fraser  sent  us  grouse,  and  then  the 
story  of  my  erratic  conduct  in  going  ofif  to  Dal- 
ruogh alone  was  related  to  Sir  Augustus.  "Au- 
gustus asked  me  if  it  is  not  unusual  for  ladies  to 
pay  afternoon  visits  at  houses  where  there  is  no 
hostess,"  Laura  told  me  afterwards.  Oh  dear,  oh 
dear,  the  imbecility,  and  worse  than  imbecility,  of 
this  sort  of  thing!  Should  men  and  women  be 
buried  in  the  same  churchyard,  do  you  think? 
Mrs.  Le  Marchant  and  Mrs.  Carstairs  would  say 
No.  Mrs.  Carstairs,  if  I  may  be  forgiven  for 
thinking  so  while  living,  though  not  as  her 
guest,  under  her  roof,  is  the  type  of  woman  that 
I  trust  evolution  will  rid  us  of  shortly.  She  is 
an  adept  in  sinister  insinuation  and  in  unpleasant 
interpretation  of  innocent  acts.  The  world,  ac- 
cording to  her,  is  made  up  of  jealous  wives  and 
hoodwinked  husbands,  or  the  other  way  round. 
The  folly  or  falsehood  of  insisting  that  such 
cases  are  the  rule,  not  the  exception,  surprises 
me  anew  whenever  I  am  confronted  by  the  point 
of  view.  But  it  is  not  worth  being  angry  with, 
though  it  does  sometimes  anger  me.  And  then  I 
think  that  the  women  whose  thoughts  run  in 
such  grooves  are  mostly  objects  for  compassion. 
Unloved  and  unlovable,  they  wither  for  want  of 
the  sunshine  of  wholesome  human  aflfection. 
Mrs.  Vivian's  tirades  are  of  a  wholly  different 
nature.  Her  tongue  may  be  sharp,  and  she  may 
indulge  over-frecly  in  feline  amenities,  but  ad- 

Z2i 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

der's  poison  is  not  under  her  lips,  and  her  nature 
has  no  trace  of  the  ugly  twist  that  makes  Mrs. 
Carstairs  my  hcte  noire.  Why  cannot  we  in  nine 
hundred  and  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a  thousand 
think  of  and  treat  human  beings  as  our  fellow 
creatures,  not  in  that  stupid,  uncomfortable  way 
of — I  am  a  woman  and  you  are  a  man  ?  I  never 
had  any  patience  with  it. 

Farewell,  Dickory,  I  have  known  worse  folk 
than  you. 

Elizabeth. 


22i 


XLVIII. 

From  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Tolcarne,  to  Miss 
Elizabeth  Etchingham,  Laurel  Lawn,  Wim- 
bledon. 

My  dear  Elizabeth, — There  is  news  for  you 
this  time.  You  are  to  keep  your  Christmas  at 
Tolcarne  and  not  go  away  again.  No  refusal 
this  time.  For  if  Elizabeth  will  not  come  and 
reign  with  Richard  at  Tolcarne,  there  will  be 
nothing  left  for  Richard  but  to  get  up  a  lawsuit 
with  Mrs.  Tallis  to  occupy  his  declining  years, 
and  steal  her  housekeeper  as  an  episode.  Marry, 
how?  Shipley  is  at  the  vicarage,  and  we  went 
there  to  afternoon  tea;  and  Mr.  Follett  was  full 
of  Anglo-Saxon  antiquities,  and  in  great  indig- 
nation with  somebody  who  had  been  vamping 
up  some  of  the  old  nonsense  about  King  Alfred 
— the  fable  of  his  hanging  forty  odd  unjust 
judges,  I  think  it  was ;  and  Shipley  was  too  busy 
to  go  out  with  Arthur,  and  yet  he  did  not  stay 
with  us  to  talk  of  King  Alfred ;  and  Mrs.  Follett 
was  engaged  with  her  gardener  over  the  fowls. 
Her  game-fowls  are  a  fine  breed.  They  want  a 
great  deal  of  attention  when  certain  visitors  are 
seen  approaching — and  at  other  times.    And  so, 

324 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

when  the  Vicar  and  I  went  out  into  his  qiiercus 
walk,  and  he  was  showing  me  how  the  trees  had 
come  on  this  summer,  who  should  meet  us  but 
Margaret  and  Shipley,  hand  in  hand,  and  she  was 
looking — well,  not  as  she  looked  after  a  certain 
interview  with  Mr.  Weekes,  of  Worthing  that  is, 
and  of  Pampesford  Royal  that  is  to  be.  They 
had  settled  something  that  was  more  to  him  than 
Alfred  and  Edward  and  all  their  charters.  And 
the  Vicar  beamed,  and  I — never  mind  exactly 
what  I  did. 

But  this  morning  I  took  out  the  two  seals  you 
know,  which  for  years  I  had  looked  at  only  once 
a  year,  those  that  my  dear  old  Munshi  got  en- 
graved after  the  writing  of  a  cvmning  scribe  at 
Agra.  Mine — the  one  that  reads  "I  said  AUf — 
is  to  be  Shipley's,  and  Maggie's,  inscribed  "My 
soul  said.  Say  no  more,"  is  for  Margaret.  They 
are  to  have  them  on  the  wedding-day.  You  re- 
member the  interpretation  of  the  lines  those 
words  come  from? 

I  said  Alif :  my  soul  said,  Say  no  more  :  If  One 
is  in  the  house,  one  letter  is  enough. 

Margaret  will  tell  you  more. 

Yours  in  joy, 

Richard. 

P.S. — The  poet  whose  name  you  will  not 
guess  is  Mrs.  Margaret  Woods. 


32s 


XLIX. 

From  Miss  ElhabetJi  EtchiugJiam,  Laurel  Lawn, 
Wimbledon,  to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham, 
Tolcarne. 

Dearest  Dickory, — You  are  the  most  un- 
selfish creature  in  the  world  (I  may  have  men- 
tioned this  before,  as  it  is  a  conclusion  I  came  to 
as  soon  as  I  could  come  to  conclusions).  I 
have  a  very  happy  note  from  dear  Margaret, 
but  she  thinks  much  more  of  you  than  you  do 
of  yourself,  and  "leaving  father"  is  already  a 
cloud  on  her  horizon.  You  have  won  her 
affections,  as  I  knew  you  would,  during  the 
short  time  you  have  been  together.  I  am 
thinking  of  jMaggie  now,  and  thinking  that  she 
would  be  glad  (she  and  I  always  agreed  about 
people.  She  would  have  liked  and  believed 
in  "Will"  Shipley ;  and  she  would  have  wished 
Margaret  to  marry.  She  was  far  too  happy  with 
you  not  to  consider  marriage  the  happiest  des- 
tiny for  a  woman.  And  I  think  he  is  a  good 
man,  upright  and  "trustic"  ;  and  then  he  is  quick- 
witted on  the  surface  and  will  not,  for  want  of 
intuition,  hurt  his  wife.  I  have  often  admired 
the  tact  and  self-control  with  which  he  handled 

326" 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

the  many  entanglements  of  the  Newton  house- 
hold. To  succeed  in  being  everything  to 
Alice,  while  for  her  sake  remaining  on  good 
terms  with  Colonel  Newton,  was  a  great  dip- 
lomatic achievement.  The  marriage  will  de- 
light Alice ;  and  Arthur  will  not  withhold  his 
consent. 

No  refusal  from  me  this  time,  you  say.  No. 
Don't  flatter  yourself  that  you  could  keep  me  at 
a  distance  if  you  tried.  I  am  coming,  and  com- 
ing to  stay. 

I  remember  about  the  seals,  and  what  you 
tell  me  now  made  me  go  rather  blind  for  a 
minute.  In  a  way  I  want  the  child  and  her 
"man"  to  have  them,  but  I  want  you  to  keep 
them  too,  and  I  think  I  want  you  to  keep  them 
most.  Have  others  made.  Do  not  give  up 
those  till  you  are  where  you  will  not  need  seals, 
dear.  But  perhaps  I  am  wrong.  As  I  have 
no  children,  perhaps  I  cannot  realise  that  what 
a  parent  gives  to  a  child  a  parent  keeps. 

Laura's  reception  of  the  news  would  have 
amused  you.  Being  Laura,  she  does  not  quite 
like  honours  to  be  divided,  and  would  have  pre- 
ferred one  engagement  at  a  time  in  the  family. 
Still  she  is  benevolently  inclined  to  Margaret, 
and  "enters  into  Margaret's  feelings  as  only 
those  can  who  know  what  it  is."  "You,  Eliz- 
abeth," she  told  me,  "as  I  have  often  heard 
people  say,  live  in  books ;  which,  perhaps,  is 
fortunate,  as  you  don't  seem  to  attract.  But  I 
have  always  found  my  happiness  in  my  afifec- 

327 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

tions,  and  Margaret  is,  I  think,  like  me."  One 
of  Margaret's  most  valuable  presents  will  be 
"from  Sir  Augustus  and  Lady  Pampesford,"  and 
Laura's  feelings  for  her  are  sisterly  and  emo- 
tional to  the  verge  of  tears,  and  not  step-grand- 
motherly at  all.  I  shall  see  you  and  my  dear 
Margaret  soon,  if  bulwarks  of  wedding  presents 
and  wedding  garments  allow  me  to  see  any  one. 
Don't  indulge  in  "a.  recurrence  of  your  old  at- 
tacks," and  so  escape  the  ceremony.  You  must 
witness  the  turning  of  Laura  into  a  Pampesford. 
"It  is  expected  of  you."  We  go  back  to  Hans 
Place  next  week. 

Your  loving  sister, 

Elizabeth. 

P.S. — Keep  the  seals.  I  can't  bear  you  not  to 
have  them.  I  can't  bear  it  for  you  or  for  Maggie. 
I  think,  if  she  knew,  she  would  rather  they  were 
yours,  only,  still.  I  know  she  would.  Keep 
them,  please. 


328 


L. 


From  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Tolcarnc,  to  Miss 
Elisabeth  Etchingham,  83  Hans  Place. 

To  my  most  excellent  sister,  Elizabeth,  by  the 
hands  of  our  well-beloved  daughter,  these : 

A  touch  of  that  old  malaria,  with  a  measurable 
temperature,  a  touch  to  swear  by.  Margaret  says 
I  must  not  think  of  going  to  Laura's  wedding, 
and  I  dutifully  think  of  not  going.  There  is 
much  to  be  thought  of  here,  and  it  would  never 
do  for  me  to  be  disabled.  A  medical  certificate 
v/ill  be  furnished  if  desired.  Our  old  enemies  do 
sometimes  befriend  us.  A  modern  Amritsar  rug, 
not  bad,  but  gaudy  enough  to  please  Laura,  must 
help  to  make  my  excuses  go  down. 

We  are  childishly  happy  and  given  up  to  our- 
selves. Tracy  is  the  only  exception ;  he  is  rather 
sulky  at  the  exuberant  youth  of  Songstress's 
puppies,  whom  Margaret  insists  on  calling  John 
and  Edward  {i.e.  De  Reszke)  in  defiance  of  all 
sporting  traditions.  Likewise  he  despises  the 
cats,  though  he  would  not  commit  himself  to 
anything  so  vulgar  as  active  hostility.  John  and 
Edward,  on  the  other  hand,  have  passed  through 

329 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

a  stage  of  diplomatic  but  cold  relations  to  fra- 
ternising, which  leads  to  admired  disorder  from 
the  human  point  of  view.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Square 
came  to  pay  us  a  state  visit  on  Wednesday, 
charged  with  solemn  congratulation  (the  en- 
gagement is  known,  of  course).  They  found,  us 
entirely  occupied  with  watching  John  and  Ed- 
ward laying  siege  to  Sampson,  who  had  en- 
trenched himself  under  the  sofa ;  the  puppies 
whining  with  excitement,  Sampson  uttering  an 
occasional  mew  defiant,  Arthur  crying  "Fetch  en 
out !"  Mr.  Follet  aiding  and  abetting  with  most 
un-padre-like  laughter.  The  young  people  had 
just  been  telling  him  they  would  have  nobody 
else  to  marry  them.  The  whole  party  rather 
wanted  to  let  off  steam  in  some  direction,  and  the 
puppies  and  the  kitten  obligingly  supplied  an  ob- 
ject. The  Squares  must  have  thought  us  quite 
mad,  but  I  believe  they  thought  so  before. 

]\Irs.  Tallis,  who  was  beginning  to  think  it 
time  for  either  a  marriage  or  a  murder  to  hap- 
pen in  the  neighborhood,  is  as  brisk  as  may  be, 
and  regrets  that  there  is  no  more  dancing  at 
weddings.  She  has  won  Arthur's  heart  by  sur- 
rendering to  Shipley  at  the  first  encounter ;  it  so 
fell  out  that  he  knew  more  of  a  local  genealogy 
than  she  did,  having  lately  found  a  missing  piece 
of  decisive  evidence  among  the  witnesses  to  one 
of  the  Thursborough  deeds.  But  Mrs.  Tallis  has 
one  trouble.  A  sailor  nephew  has  sent  her,  with 
infinite  precaution,  a  charming  little  Italian  owl, 
and  the  housekeeper  is  in  mortal  fear  of  bad  luck 

330 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

following  it.  I  find  these  edifying  and  sound  re- 
marks in  a  paper  by  an  educated  Paris  gentleman 
on  superstitions  common  to  Europe  and  India, 
in  the  Bombay  Anthropological  Society's  jour- 
nal. "The  ugly  owl  is  everywhere  considered  a 
bird  full  of  bad  omen.  I  remember  the  peace  of 
mind  of  even  an  English  schoolmaster  of  a  high 
school  being  disturbed  at  the  sight  of  an  owl  on 
the  roof  of  his  school.  He  did  not  rest  till  he 
made  it  leave  his  premises  by  means  of  stones." 
Mrs.  Tallis's  housekeeper  must  be  taught  not  to 
attempt  any  counter-charm  by  means  of  stones 
or  such  like.  Perhaps  we  can  persuade  her  that 
the  Italian  owl  is  quite  different  from  the  com- 
mon owl.  Why  does  anybody  think  an  owl  ugly? 
Or  a  toad,  for  the  matter  of  that?  I  do  not  even 
share  the  supposed  inborn  aversion  to  snakes. 
Vipers  have,  no  doubt,  to  be  treated  as  enemies 
of  man  because  they  are  accustomed  to  bite 
hounds,  not  to  speak  of  common  dogs.  But  I 
maintain  that  in  themselves  they  are  pretty  creat- 
ures enough.  Indian  poison-snakes  are  a 
graver  matter — though  you  know  that  more  peo- 
ple die  officially  of  snake-bite  than  ever  felt  a 
serpent's  tooth.  Another  maligned  bird  is  the 
puckeridge,  viilgo,  night-jar,  without  whose 
soothing  monotone  I  consider  no  fine  summer 
evening  complete.  Was  it  the  noiseless  flight 
that  seemed  uncanny  to  our  ancestors? 

Mr.  Follett  is  a  naughtier  and  more  secular 
clerk  than  I  knew.  He  and  Mrs.  Follett  were 
captured  by  an  American  family  at  their  Norman 

00  i 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

village,  and  the  Americans  taught  them  euchre, 
which  they  have  proceeded  to  teach  t:s.  I  am  not 
converted  to  holding  the  four-handed  game, 
where  the  partners  are  constant,  anything  like  an 
adequate  substitute  for  whist,  though  it  may  do 
for  the  young  and  giddy.  But  with  Shipley  we 
make  up  five,  and  then  it  is  a  bewildering  but 
fascinating  system  of  shifting  triple  and  dual  al- 
liances, with  occasional  tacit  coalitions  against 
a  player  who  is  dangerously  near  the  winning 
score.  Towards  the  end  of  the  game  there  is 
need  for  high  political  judgment  in  bidding  or 
not  bidding  for  the  lead,  as  you  have  to  weigh 
the  advantage  of  gaining  points  for  yourself 
against  the  risk  of  advancing  temporary  partners 
who  are  also  rivals.  Altogether  it  is  very  like  a 
picture  in  little  of  the  so-called  concert  of  the 
Great  Powers  in  Europe.  I  leave  to  wiser  heads 
the  question  who  has  been  most  euchred  in  that 
game. 

I  all  but  forgot  to  tell  you  that  Harry  is  on  his 
way  home  with  confidential  despatches,  and  may 
be  in  time  to  represent  me  at  the  great  function ; 
I  have  sent  a  request  to  that  effect  to  catch  him 
at  the  War  Office.  But  I  expect  he  has  written 
or  telegraphed  to  you  himself. 

As  to  the  seals,  what  I  felt  was  that  in  the 
young  folks'  hands  they  would  be  alive  for  me 
too.  But  Margaret  and  Shipley  had  something 
like  your  thought ;  they  begged  to  consult  be- 
fore deciding,  and  they  say  they  will  gladly  have 
copies,  but  I  must  keep  the  originals  for  my  own 

Zi2 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

time.     So  now  I  hope  you  will  approve  without 
reserve. 

Tell  me  all  about  the  most  august  wedding. 
Your  loving  brother, 

DiCKORY, 


333 


LI. 

From  Miss  Elizabeth  Etchingham,  83  Hans  Place, 
to  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Tolcarne. 

Oh,  Richard,  Richard,  'tis  a  shocking  thing 
to  be  whohy  depraved.  What  am  I  to  do  with  a 
creature  who,  when  he  should  be  hasting  to  the 
wedding  in  Sloane  Street,  remains  in  Devon- 
shire, and  sits  down  calmly  at  home  to  comment 
upon  toads  and  snakes  and  vipers  and  Mrs. 
Tallises  and  owls  and  night-jars?  Is  this  a  time 
to  turn  to  wondering  why  night-flying  "foules" 
are  birds  of  ill  omen,  and  to  quote  learned  Par- 
sees  and  Bombay  anthropological  journals?  If 
refusing  to  haste  to  the  wedding,  surely  good 
feeling  would  have  prompted  the  throwing  o^ 
of  a  prothalamion  sort  of  note,  a  song  of  "swans 
of  goodly  hue,"  "fair  plumes"  and  silken  feathers, 
and  a  dismissal  till  more  opportune  moments  of 
your  evil-boding,  fatal  owl  ?  I  am  grieved  to  the 
core.    And  your  truancy  cost  us  Arthur  too. 

As  to  the  recurrence  of  your  old  attacks,  I  tell 
you  plainly,  my  dear,  I  don't  believe  in  it.  When 
I  said  to  Margaret,  "Is  your  father  really  ill?" 
Margaret  smiled ;  and  though  Laura,  whose  in- 
variable   interest  in  diseases    was    aroused,  had 

334 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

already  reached  the  point  of  suggesting  "pack- 
ing" for  the  lowering  of  your  temperature, "Will" 
(I  still  speak  his  name  between  inverted  commas), 
with  the  crass  simplicity  of  a  man,  casually  let 
out  that  you  had  seen  your  family  off  from  Buck- 
land  Road  station  and  intended  to  take  the  par- 
sonage on  your  way  home.  Was  there  ever  such 
an  abandoned  wretch?  (Phantom)  toads,  snakes, 
vipers,  Mrs,  Tallises,  owls,  night-jars  are  subjects 
on  which  the  delirious  wax  eloquent,  but  I  know 
you  too  well  to  think  that  your  mind,  when  you 
wrote,  wandered,  and  no  doctor  of  medicine,  but 
rather  a  doctor  of  divinity,  would  suit  the  needs 
of  your  case,  Dickory.  However,  no  more  of 
this  for  now.  I  am  soon  to  take  charge  of  you 
for  life,  and  shall  feel  it  my  duty  to  re-mould  your 
character  from  the  roots.  There's  one  thing, 
however,  I  may  mention :  if  Mrs.  Tallis  is  to 
keep  her  owl,  I  must  keep  my  falcon — my  merlin 
to  be  correct — "To  a  king  belonged  the  gerfal- 
con, to  a  prince  the  falcon  gentle,  to  an  earl  the 
peregrine,  to  a  lady  the  merlin,  to  a  young  squire 
the  hobby,  while  a  yeoman  carried  a  goshawk,  a 
priest  a  sparrow-hawk,  and  a  knave  or  servant  a 
kestrel."  (I  think  my  first  request  to  Enticknap 
will  be  that  he  should  carry  a  kestrel.)  Mr.  Fol- 
lett's  copy  of  Pliny  will  explain  why  Mrs.  Tallis's 
owl  requires  my  falcon — "The  falcon,  by  a  secret 
instinct  and  societie  of  nature,  seeing  the  poor 
howlet  thus  distressed"  (beset  by  a  multitude  of 
antagonistic  birds),  "cometh  to  succour  and 
taketh  equal  part  with  him,  and  so  ended  the 

a35 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

fray."  Good  heavens,  what  am  I  doing?  Evil 
communications  do  corrupt  good  manners,  and 
I  am  vi^riting  of  "howlets"  and  leaving  every 
hymeneal  task  undone. 

Presents  are  pouring  in  and  furniture  is  pour- 
ing out  to  make  room  for  the  wedding-guests 
that  to-morrow  will  bring.  (Trelawney  followed 
his  favourite  velvet  chair  to  the  box-room  and, 
having  been  searched  for  high  and  low,  was 
found  there  with  paws  neatly  folded  under  his 
heavily  furred  person.)  Laura's  trunks  block 
every  passage ;  Laura  prophesies  imminent 
faints ;  Blake  runs  constantly  to  inform  me  that 
her  "ladyship  feels  she  may  go  off  any  moment." 
There  is  Margaret  to  talk  to  and  Cynthia  to  for- 
tify— dear  little  Cynthia,  who  has  looked  tremu- 
lous since  she  heard  that  Harry  may  appear  at 
any  moment.  There  is  Minnie  in  the  ofhng  very 
full  of  "A  Tribute  of  Tears,"  and  Charles  equally 
full  of  the  homicidal  system  of  drainage  that  con- 
verts the  Rectory,  of  which  he  has  temporary 
possession,  into  a  "death-trap,"  "a  disseminator 
of  typhoid,"  a  booking-office  for  Styx.  (I  don't 
believe  it  is  ever  safe  to  trust  a  clergyman's  word 
on  his  own  drains.)  There  are  flowers  to  arrange 
and  a  thousand  marjoram-wreath,  saffron-robe, 
pine-tree  torch  deeds  to  do  and  to  prevent  being 
done,  so  I  will  wait  till  to-morrow,  till  Laura  is 
Lady  Pampesford,  for  my  epistle's  end. 

Wednesday. — The  August  wedding  day. 
"Hail,  Hymen,  Hymenaeus  hail !" 

Richard,  as  I  was  coming  out  of  the  church 

336 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

after  the  ceremony,  I  felt  my  arm  gripped  and  I 
heard  a  voice  say,  "Any  orders  to-day,  M'm?" 
and  there  was  my  beloved  Harry,  safe,  sound, 
and  sunburnt.  Then  he  greeted  Cynthia,  and 
she  could  not  find  her  voice  to  answer,  and  I 
thought  for  a  moment  she  would  have  answered 
by  fainting,  for  she  was  as  white  as  her  frock.  But 
she  did  not  faint,  and  Harry  saw  what  I  did  and 
was  equal  to  the  occasion.  In  another  moment 
he  had  put  her  into  a  hansom,  had  followed  her 
into  a  hansom,  and  had  shouted  directions  to  the 
driver.  Is  there  time  driving  from  Holy  Trinity 
Church,  Sloane  Street,  to  83  Hans  Place,  to 
speak  words  that  alter  the  hereafter  of  two  lives? 
Apparently  there  is.  When  I  caught  sight  of 
Harry  and  Cynthia  again,  Cynthia  was  smiling 
shyly — and  Harry?  Harry  had  the  desire  of  his 
heart,  and  knew  that  there  are  other  triumphs 
than  those  of  an  Egyptian  campaign.  He  suc- 
ceeded in  pushing  his  way  presently  through 
the  wedding-guest  throng  and  found  an  oppor- 
tunity to  say,  "Is  not  she  a  darling?"  Yes,  she 
is  a  darling,  and  he  is  something  good  and  de- 
lightful also,  and  they  are  to  be  married  before  he 
goes  out  again  in  November.  And  they  will  be 
happy.  They  must  be  happy.  Why  am  I  so  vio- 
lently anxious  that  the  people  I  care  for  should 
have  what  they  want,  when  I  am  always  telling 
myself,  and  trying  to  make  myself  believe,  that 
happiness  is  but  a  paltry  thing,  a  thing  of  small 
moment  after  all  ? 
Well,  now,  again  for  the  wedding.     Experts 

337 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

tell  me  that  the  wedding  went  off  very  well.  Con- 
sciousness of  her  gown's  merits  and  regard  for 
what  Blake  calls  its  "set,"  wound  Laura  up  to  the 
semblance  of  stoical  fortitude.  (The  Camelry 
has  already  determined  to  follow  Cynthia's  for- 
tunes and  not  to  be  tempted  by  the  flesh-pots  of 
Pampesford-Royal.)  "Augustus"  showed  honest 
emotion,  and  I  quite  liked  him ;  when  wishing 
me  good-bye  he  said,  with  real  feeling  if  pom- 
pous diction,  that  it  was  his  "earnest  hope  that 
the  most  cordial  relations  would  be  preserved 
between  the  families."  (In  marrying  Laura  he 
imagines  himself  to  be  depriving  us  of  some- 
thing that  our  unselfishness  alone  enables  us  to 
part  with  willingly.)  The  Miss  Pampesfords 
(who  have  taken  the  lease  of  this  house  off  our 
hands)  furtively  wiped  tears  from  their  eyes,  and 
they  embraced  Margaret  and  Cynthia  and  Min- 
nie as  well  as  me.  I  hoped  they  were  going  to 
press  Charles  to  their  hearts,  but  Mrs.  Vivian 
dispatched  him  upon  one  of  her  many  errands 
before  this  caress  was  brought  off.  How  should 
you  like  to  find  yourself  in  the  clasp  of  your 
black  and  purple  dragons  ? 

The  time  and  the  place  considered,  the  family 
and  the  family's  friends  and  acquaintances  made 
rather  a  brave  show.  You  were,  of  course, 
sorely,  sorely  missed,  but  yours  was  about  the 
only  vacant  place  on  the  dais.  The  services 
were  well  to  the  fore,  as  a  tottering  Admiral 
uncle  was  produced  by  Laura  to  give  her  away, 
and  Sir  Augustus  was  "supported"  by  a  Major 

338 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

Sampson  Pampesford,  who  is  evidently  looked 
upon  as  the  Lothario  of  the  house  of  Pampes- 
ford. (Miss  Teresa,  with  kind  care  for  my  peace 
of  mind,  murmured  that  "the  Major,  though  ex- 
cessively pleasing,  was  not  a  man  of  domestic 
tastes,  and  fitted  for  conjugal  happiness,  like  our 
brother,  my  dear  Miss  Etchingham.")  Mrs. 
Vivian  killed  two  birds  with  one  stone — bring- 
ing Azore  to  see  his  doctor,  and  herself  and  Mr. 
Vivian  to  see  Laura  married.  (She  asked  if  I 
had  noticed  that  the  form  of  Solemnisation  of 
Matrimony  was  followed  in  the  Prayer  Book  by 
the  order  for  the  Visitation  of  the  Sick — "the 
compilers  of  the  Prayer  Book,  my  good  Eliza- 
beth, took  in  the  likelihood  that  in  every  mar- 
riage one  or  other  would  quickly  be  tormented 
and  worried  to  death.")  Margaret  and  her  Will, 
I  regret  to  tell  you,  did  their  duty  by  no  one  but 
each  other.  Charles,  arms  folded  and  back  to 
wall,  sustained  the  bridegroom  with  his  theories 
on  drainage.  Minnie  sought  fervid  copy  among 
Laura's  conventionalities.  Lady  Clementine 
Mure  devoted  herself  to  the  wedding's  most 
genial  Colonial  Bishop.  Stephen  found  Blanche 
Vivian,  and  Blanche  seemed  well  content  to  be 
found.  Mr.  Weekes,  glancing  nervously  round 
the  room  the  while,  made  timid  efforts  to  talk 
down  Admiral  Tidenham's  ear-trumpet.  Aunt 
Jane  broke  out  of  a  bath-chair  upon  the  as- 
tounded world,  crowned  with  a  bonnet  from 
which  sprang  a  gorgeous  orange  crest  and  from 
which  waved  an  equally  gorgeous  and  striking 

339 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

orange  plume.  (Laura  has  hinted  that  my  place 
for  the  future  is  at  Aunt  Jane's  side,  but  Aunt 
Jane  does  not  feel  herself  in  need  of  a  caretaker, 
and  prefers,  like  many  other  invalids,  liberty,  as 
far  as  she  can  get  it  in  a  bath-chair,  to  super- 
vision.) Jem  kept  Mr.  Vivian's  taciturnity  in 
countenance,  and  fiew  before  the  orange  crest 
and  plume  of  Aunt  Jane,  whose  passionate  desire 
to  learn  from  his  own  lips  if  he  found  the  cli- 
mate of  Oxbridge  healthy  was  thus  frustrated. 
Our  cousin.  Canon  Etchingham,  joked  ecclesi- 
astically with  the  self-satisfaction  of  a  portly 
Church  dignitary  used  to  an  audience  of  minor 
clergy  and  holy  women.  The  Canoness  (very 
gaudily,  not  very  prettily,  attired)  was  crushed, 
without  realising  the  crushing,  by  Mrs.  Vivian. 
Mrs  Carstairs  and  Mrs.  Le  Marchant  lacerated 
their  neighbours'  reputations  and  arranged  for  a 
continuance  of  an  acquaintance  thus  promisingly 
begun.  Minnie's  Mrs.  Potters  attached  herself 
to  the  absent-minded  Lord  Leyton,  who  failed 
to  discover  that  he  was  politely  returning  the 
attentions  of  a  woman  who  for  years  has  lived 
within  a  stone's  throw  of  one  of  his  lodges  and 
has  been  persistently  ignored  by  Lady  Leyton 
and  himself.  Lady  Leyton  meanwhile  was  too 
deep  in  conversation  with  Mrs.  Vivian,  and  too 
closely  hemmed  in  by  Mrs.  Vivian's  retinue,  to 
notice  the  irrevocable  catastrophe  and  recall 
Lord  Leyton  to  her  side  and  his  senses.  "If," 
said  Aunt  Jane,  "that  Miss  Llanelly"  (who  asked 
herself)  "and  Mr.  Biggleswade"  (whom  Laura 

340 


The  Etchingham  Letters 

would  ask)  "are  not  engaged  to  be  married,  I 
really,  really  do  not  know  what  sort  of  behaviour 
we  may  expect  to  see  next.  I  really,  really  do 
not."    For  the  rest  you  must  wait  till  we  meet. 

We  shall  meet  very  soon  now,  and  the  play  of 
which  the  scene  is  London  is  very  nearly  done. 
(Trelawney  and  les  singing  birds  travel  back  to 
their  native  land  with  your  child  to-morrow. 
She  and  Will  found  many  books  to  turn  over  in 
the  back  drawing-room  this  evening,  and  Harry 
and  Cynthia  did  equally  well  without  books  on 
the  balcony.)  Three  days  with  Alice  Newton, 
two  at  Vivian-End,  and  then  peaceful  Tolcarne 
for  always.  ...  I  have  been  saying  "Bless 
you  my  children"  all  round,  and  I  feel  to-night  as 
if  I  wanted  to  hear  some  one  say,  as  my  father 
used,  and  as  Mr.  Fraser  still  does,  "God  bless 
you"  to  me. 

Good-bye,  Dickory. 

Your  loving  sister, 

Elizabeth. 


341 


LII. 

From  Sir  Richard  Etchingham,  Tokarnc,  to  Miss 
Elisabeth  Etchingham,  83  Hans  Place. 

Ai  zabar-dast  u  zar-dast  d::dr! 

Most  imperious  and  sceptical  of  sisters,  1 
never  said  I  was  ill.  I  said  I  had  monitory 
symptoms.  If  I  had  very  much  wanted  to  go  to 
Laura's  wedding,  and  be  taken  to  the  hearts  of 
sentimental  dragons,  I  should  have  gone  in  de- 
fiance of  the  doctor.  Instead  of  which,  Arthur 
showed  a  most  filial  anxiety  that  I  should  take 
care  of  myself,  and,  moreover,  was  willing  to  re- 
nounce the  ceremony  (Margaret  having  the  best 
of  escort)  in  order  to  stay  at  home  too  and  take 
care  of  me.  Why  should  I  disappoint  his  piety? 
Well,  you  have  done  your  duty  and  mine.  Sab 
tamdsha  hogyd.  There  is  something  brutal  in 
women's  way  of  abusing  their  power,  and  driv- 
ing poor  men  to  lay  bare  the  weakness  of  their 
skill  in  excuse.  We  have  not  your  subtilty; 
which  being  confessed,  you  might  leave  it  there. 
As  the  ingenious  author  of  "Cupid's  Whirligig" 
remarked  in  1630,  "Man  was  made  when  Nature 
was  but  an  apprentice ;  but  woman  when  shee 
was  a  skilfull  Mistress  of  her  Arte." 
And  you  are  really  to  be  here  in  a  week,  and 

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The  Etchingham  Letters 

this  is,  I  hope,  my  last  letter  to  you  for  ever  so 
long.  In  witness  whereof  you  will  note  that  I 
seal  this  with  the  seal  inscribed,  "Say  no  more." 

Leagrave  has  sent  Biggleswade  a  polite  and 
solemn  renunciation  of  all  his  interest  in  the  pro- 
jected play.  Biggleswade,  being  mollified  with 
his  late  good  fortune,  has  been  pleased  to  accept 
it;  so  Mr,  Follett  will  not  have  to  set  the  bishop 
on  him,  and  the  dead  season  will  be  the  poorer 
by  a  curious  plaintiff-in-person  suit  that  will  not 
come  into  court ;  and  the  play  will  be  all  the 
work  of  the  egregious  Biggleswade  and  a  very 
precious  piece  of  Wardour  Street  antiquity. 

Now  let  us  indeed  say  no  more,  and  abide  in 
the  beatitude  of  the  other  verse :  "If  one  is  in  the 
house,  one  letter  is  enough."  It  is  a  fine  quality 
of  mystic  aphorisms  that  they  will  carry  many 
meanings,  as  the  sunlight  is  one,  and  yet  breaks 
up  into  infinite  sparkles  and  colours. 

"Guftam  ki  alif:  guft  digar  Hich  ma-gu: 
dar  khanah  agar  kas  ast  yak  harf  bas  ast. 

Your  loving  brother, 

Richard. 

THE    END. 


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